


Pathological

by Anuket



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Bethesda Forced My Hand, F/M, Yes There's Sex Here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuket/pseuds/Anuket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Love is reciprocal torture."   -Marcel Proust</p><p>Our story begins with Quinn and Deacon casing Covenant. It's the creepiest settlement in the Wasteland but wow, is it clean. And because those people are terrible at subterfuge, it takes D & Q about 30 seconds to realize something's wrong.</p><p>Welcome to the Wasteland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to the Wasteland

**Author's Note:**

> When Bethesda decided not to make my favorite compulsive liar available as a romance option I cried. Wailed. Gnashed my teeth and shook my fist at the cold, uncaring gods. Then I shut myself in my room and contemplated vengeance on all that is Bethesda Softworks or even remotely related to Bethesda Softworks.
> 
> Okay, not really. 
> 
> But I did start writing this. Then I took another month to work up the nerve to post it here. You don't have to be kind, but I wouldn't mind it. I'd also appreciate any honest feedback or constructive criticism. Any errors made regarding location, canon, etc. are mine and may be intentional, but are probably not, so I'd appreciate a heads-up on those, too.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed living it inside my head.
> 
> It probably goes without saying, but there will be mission-related spoilers in future installments.

  
  
“I don’t like this place,” Quinn said with a scowl, eyeing the heavily-defended settlement in the distance. Thick concrete walls, surprisingly pristine and topped with barbed wire, surrounded the buildings within.

“Yeah, Q, you’ve said that once or twice now.” Deacon sounded distracted. She wasn’t fooled. He never missed a detail. She’d seen the alarmingly complete report he’d compiled on her.

“I mean, look at it. Who the hell needs,” she paused and did a quick visual count. “Six? Six turrets on a settlement this size? What are they so afraid of?”

“Is that a rhetorical question? Also, you missed that one, and the other one over there.”

“Excuse me, _eight_ turrets on a settlement that size. That creepy-nice gate guard. And that test? It was fucking bizarre.”

“How was it bizarre?”

“You would know how if you’d chosen to lurk within hearing distance.”

“Not my style. I like to blend, you know that.”

She snorted. “You just like playing dress-up. It’s okay. In my day lots of grown men did that. It doesn’t make you weird. Truly. Not even a little.”

“I’m a master of disguise, babe. It’s a totally manly and, yes, dead-sexy skill. Now focus, please. What did they ask you?”

“Oh, it was just shit like: Would I murder someone if my grandma told me to? What possibly fatal prank would I choose to play on my dad? What position would I pick on a baseball team?” She shook her head. “I mean, really? As if I didn’t know you guys think baseball was some sort of crazy blood sport.”

“I told you this place was off. Seriously, Q, can we get off the ground now? It’s dark. Mr. Gate Guard has been sleeping for the last half hour. And so has my foot.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch. I would have thought you’d be used to recon missions.”

“Hey, my recon missions usually involve a generous application of booze and a good hat. Squatting behind a bush for hours? Not as much fun as it’s cracked up to be.”

“That never would've worked with these people. They all know each other, and they really don’t trust outsiders. One of them could be a _synth_ , you know.” She waggled her fingers in the air.

“Yeah, I know. Nice touch with the 'spooky' fingers, by the way.”

“Thanks, I try." She flashed him a grin then shook her head. "I don't know, D. They were all just so … nice. It’s unnatural.”

“Genuine kindness _is_ an increasingly rare commodity, these days.”

“Penny, the store owner, almost looked like she wanted to hug me when we met.”

“Good thing she didn’t. You might’ve punched her and blown your cover. Thank you for your show of restraint and incredible self-discipline.”

“Hey, I don’t solve every problem with my fists.”

“True. Sometimes you solve them with guns.”

“I can use my words, too, you know. I can be charming. When I want to be.”

“… yeah. You can.”

Quinn glanced at Deacon. There had been something off in his voice for a moment there, a rare note of almost-serious. But, as usual, his eyes were hidden and his expression told her nothing. Damned sunglasses. She gave a mental shrug. For this mission she’d abandoned her bright blue vault suit in favor of more camouflage-friendly leathers. They creaked slightly as she rose to her feet, brushing dirt off the backs of her legs and bottom. Beside her, Deacon stood, too. They lingered together on the small rise for a moment, watching for any signs of movement. Covenant was quiet except for the faint chug of the eight machine-gun turrets squatting atop the walls.

“I’m surprised you didn’t stay at the bunkhouse,” Deacon said casually. “Didn’t you say they had guest beds?”

“Not a chance. There’s no way I could fall asleep surrounded by all those creepy assholes. Probably wake up strapped to a bed, being probed.”

“Ooh. Kinky.”

She laughed. “Maybe. If it were someone else. Almost anyone else.”

“Oh yeah? Anyone, huh?”

“Why? Are you offering to probe me, Deacon?”

He hesitated, and she enjoyed the rare instant of speechlessness. These moments didn’t happen often and they never lasted long, so she’d learned quickly to relish them while she was able. Quinn had never met anyone quite as … smooth as Deacon No-Last-Name-Just-Deacon-Is-Good. Plant him down in almost any community in the Commonwealth and he was able to slide right into the mix using little more than his snarky sense of humor, a cocky grin and the right disguise. Words and good intel were his weapons of choice, and he rarely seemed to be low on ammunition.

Throw a little sexual innuendo his way, though, and he usually tripped over his tongue for at least a word or two. It was kind of cute. And, because it was so rare to be able to catch him off-guard, she’d taken to doing so as often as possible. Petty revenge, maybe, for the months he’d spent stalking her before she finally followed the Freedom Trail and found the Railroad. So be it. These days, you grabbed whatever advantage you could get. It was good to know that the world today wasn’t completely unlike the one she’d left behind.

Quinn sighed and turned her back on Covenant. “C’mon. I think I saw a mostly-intact boathouse down the road a bit. We can stay there for the night and continue the search tomorrow. They’re hiding something, Deacon. I feel it.”

“Everybody’s hiding something, Q. Some more than others.”

“Don’t I know it. You’re coming in with me tomorrow.”

“Aw, man. That place makes my ass twitch. I try to avoid places and things that make my ass twitch.”

“Oh, please. You’re dying to get a look inside. Honestly, I’m a little surprised you haven’t talked your way in before now.”

“No reason to. Reports said they were a little weird, sure, but they mostly kept to themselves until now.” Deacon sounded defensive. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Q, there’s a lot of shit going down in the Commonwealth these days. Railroad only has so many operatives to spread around. I mean, I’m good but I’m not magical.”

“I know. I also know you well enough by now to know you love a mystery. There’s a big one, here. They know something about what happened to Amelia Stockton.”

“Just for the record, I also love a good Brahmin steak and a nice, dry red.”

She smiled. “Well, shit, I’m so sorry. No Brahmin in my pack. Can I tempt you with cheap whiskey and a nice big plate of Cram, instead?”

“Oh, yum, I can hardly … wait, did you hear that?”

Quinn paused, listening. Buzzing. Angry, insistent, territorial buzzing. Aw, crap. “I hear it. Bloodbugs. Fuck.” Her hand fell to the 10mm pistol always strapped to her thigh, drawing it in the same motion. Its familiar weight felt comforting as she scanned their surroundings.

“I hate those little bastards.” Beside her, Deacon pulled out his own weapon.

“Little? They’re blood-sucking insects the size of small dogs!”

He laughed. “Welcome to the Wasteland, Q.”


	2. Nothing is Gentle, Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Deacon reminisces about his first time actually meeting Q - never mind his copious note-taking in the months leading up to that meeting - and I get a little schmaltzy. Although hopefully not too much.
> 
> Quests mentioned: Following the Trail

Deacon lit another cigarette and watched the smoke curl in lazy spirals from the glowing orange tip. All was quiet at the boathouse. The bloodbugs were dead, their eggs crushed. Well, maybe stomped a little. Actually, stomped a lot. They’d taken turns.

Afterward Deacon had, only half-joking, suggested they burn the place down just to be sure they’d cleared every last bit of the infestation. Reluctantly, if her wrinkled nose was any indication, Quinn vetoed his suggestion. The Minutemen were always looking for good settlement locations. While it was doubtful the two of them would ever spend another night here, there were always other desperate fuckers who would be willing to sweep up dismembered bug parts and burn the exsanguinated corpse in the bathroom for the chance to have a place to call home. When Quinn got back to Sanctuary, she’d relay the information to Garvey and he’d coordinate with Castle. For now, the night was deceptively peaceful.

By the uncertain moonlight the fields outside Covenant were even more depressing than usual, colored in shades of brown and gray. Quinn had told him that, once upon a time, grass lay thick, green and soft. Trees stretched tall then and, throughout the spring and summer months, leaves grew heavy along their branches. She’d described sitting under those trees on lazy weekend afternoons, back propped against a trunk with her legs stretched out. Bare feet and cool earth. Sipping lemonade and reading novels written by authors who existed only as barely-remembered names now. To most people, anyway. Soft breezes would send the leaves rustling, whispering through the branches like a half-heard conversation. She’d said that sometimes she napped there, skin warmed by early afternoon sunlight, lulled to sleep by the sighing leaves and the mingled sounds of birdsong and children’s laughter. Waking only after her husband nudged her and told her it was time to head home.

Deacon couldn’t even imagine it.

Not just the grass or the trees or the nearly unfathomable notion that nature could be gentle. Now, falling asleep outside was an almost surefire way to wind up dead - mauled by a roaming mongrel dog pack, or chewed on by a molerat brood. Or, if you got lucky, a simple shot to the head by a raider scavving party, though most raiders preferred to play with their victims a bit, first. There was plenty of dangerous stuff lining up to kill stupid - or plain unlucky - travelers in the wasteland.

Nothing about this world was gentle now.

He glanced over at Quinn, who’d set up camp on the wide front porch next to him. She’d dismantled one of the weapons in her arsenal and was industriously cleaning the parts with a ragged bit of cloth she’d found somewhere. Quinn was a great one for filling her pockets full of the bits and pieces of someone’s former life and cobbling them together into something pretty damned useful. Give her some cans, copper wire and a little wonderglue and she could probably build a fucking grenade launcher. And her skills didn’t stop at post-apocalyptic handyman. Plant her in front of one of those old-world computers and she could hack them faster than even Nick Valentine. And he wasn’t sure he’d ever figure out how she got through locked doors so quickly with a simple bobby pin, but she managed somehow.

Looking at her small, slender hands moving with such assurance as she reassembled one weapon and moved on to the next, he marveled all over again at how easily she’d adapted to her new world. To go from idyllic afternoons such as the ones she’d described to the harsh, kill-or-be-killed reality of the Commonwealth without missing a beat? After being fucking _frozen_ for two centuries - and wouldn’t he love to get his hands on the assholes who thought _that_ was a worthwhile idea - she woke to the reality that her husband had been murdered. Her son had been kidnapped. Nothing in this world, this goddamn wasteland, was how she remembered it. And it never would be again. Most people would probably have lost their shit. Literally. Like, all over the place. But not Q. It didn’t matter if she was facing down feral ghouls, Gunner mercenaries or the occasional displaced Yao Guai, she never blinked. Never backed down. And not once had he seen her indulge in self-pity.

Quite simply: she was amazing. The Railroad couldn’t have found a better operative if they’d held auditions. And wouldn’t that be a trip? Deacon took another drag off his cigarette and indulged in a brief fantasy of shooting trials and impassioned ‘why I wanna help the synths’ speeches. Maybe a swimsuit contest, not that anyone went swimming anymore. He'd seen a few old magazines, though, and fully approved of the concept. Even stacked up against those old world beauty queens, Q would win any contest. No question.

He still remembered, clearly, the day she’d sauntered into the tunnels beneath Old North Church, Nick Valentine at her back and a still-smoking shotgun in her hands. Not many people followed the Freedom Trail these days, and not just because it was, like, the worst scavenger hunt ever. The Trail wound its way through some of the most dangerous and irradiated parts of Boston only to end in a labyrinth of dark, twisting basement tunnels infested with feral ghouls. Not quite the prize most people dreamed of.

But, really, it wasn’t the secrecy, or the danger, or even the near-constant risk of radiation poisoning that kept people away. People didn’t follow the Freedom Trail because they were afraid, and not just of the inevitable super mutant, raider or Gunner attacks. It wasn't even the enormous, aggressive insects that now called the Boston ruins home, though he could admit, if only to himself, that watching them skitter in for an attack belonged in a special category of 'ick'. No, mostly it was the synths, the invisible bogeymen of the Commonwealth. Anti-synth sentiment was at an all-time high thanks to the fucking Institute.

The Railroad knew someone was coming from the moment Quinn started spinning that overly-complicated door lock. Tinker Tom had rigged the door to signal them whenever someone tried to open it. And considering how much effort it took to get the damn thing open, the Railroad had plenty of time to send a down a welcome party to greet any new arrival. They weren’t expecting someone like Quinn to show up. She definitely knew how to make an impression.

When the spotlights lit her up she actually posed, one hand on her hip and the shotgun dangling at her side, like she’d been waiting for something like this to happen. She was smiling. At ease. She still wore the distinctive blue Vault suit that made her so easy to keep track of, and she’d supplemented it with some heavy leather armor pieces over her legs, chest and arms. A modified 10mm was strapped to one thigh and what looked like the stock of a sniper rifle rose over her right shoulder. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a practical braid but a few pieces had escaped to curl around her cheeks. And she wore sunglasses to hide her eyes. Lingering in the corridor behind Desdemona’s welcome party, Deacon couldn’t help but approve of the whole presentation. It screamed ‘confident,’ and the Railroad could use a shot of confidence. Q had that in spades.

He was pretty sure Desdemona was equally impressed but she hid it well. She had to. She was the boss. It was her job to keep their organization intact. And, after so recently losing their main base of operations to the Institute, Dez took her job more seriously than ever. Not that she’d ever really been anything less than painfully serious. From his spot in the shadows Deacon listened to their initial conversation: _Who are you? How did you learn of us?_ All of the usual questions. He already knew the answers to those questions, of course, but he was interested to hear how Quinn would respond.

Plus he knew how much Dez enjoyed saying “I’m Desdemona, and I’m the leader of the Railroad.”

Next, there came the thankfully short explanations of what The Railroad was, and what it stood for. Just in case there was someone left in the Commonwealth who hadn’t read their pamphlet. Considering how secretive they were about almost everything else, Deacon had never quite understood their need to leave propaganda everywhere. He'd argued, more than once, that doing so defeated the purpose of 'super secret organization' but had been steadfastly ignored.

And then, finally, came the biggie. The question that had Dez holding her breath and Glory’s trigger finger twitching.

“Would you put your life on the line to save a synth?”

Not a great question, so far as entrance exams went. Deacon was living proof that, well, people lied. He certainly did, every day, and sometimes just for fun. Still, Desdemona wasn’t stupid. She knew how loudly actions spoke. And, to be fair, she didn’t readily embrace everyone who answered her little pop quiz with all the right trigger words. There were usually tests upon tests, months of bullshit tasks and small missions, before the Railroad really starting trusting a new operative with the big stuff. And, on the rare occasion that tests failed, there was always Glory and her big, fuck-off minigun. Still, showing up at the Railroad headquarters with your own personal synth sidekick ought to count for something, Deacon mused, watching Glory and Nick try to out-stare one another. If it was a deliberate action on Quinn's part, it was a damn good one. 

“I put my life on the line for others every day. It doesn’t matter to me if they’re human or synth.”

Valentine had practically blown a gasket at that casual remark. Deacon could almost see the words ‘Valentine Loved That’ floating above his head. And that old synth wasn’t one to be fooled easily. Both his programming and his job as Diamond City’s premier - and only - private eye made him skeptical by nature. If Quinn had been untrustworthy, Valentine wouldn’t still be hanging around. Or they’d have never found the body. Even more tellingly, he didn’t dispute her statement.

And that was Deacon’s cue. Strolling forward, he was conscious of Quinn’s gaze on him before he’d even entered the pool of light in which they all stood. At some point she’d taken her sunglasses off. He found himself wondering what color her eyes were. In all his months of following her, he’d never been close enough to tell. He deliberately stepped more loudly, so that Dez noticed his approach too.

“Deacon. Where’ve you been?”

“You’re having a party. What gives with my invitation?”

“I need intel. Who is this?”

“Whoa,” he said, as if he’d only just noticed the blue flash of the vault suit not ten feet from where he was standing. Quinn was grinning now. Nice to see she appreciated the drama of the moment as much as he did.

Keeping his eyes on her face, he spoke again. “News flash, boss, this lady’s kind of a big deal out there.”

The smile remained in place, but her eyes narrowed slightly. They were some kind of light color but he still couldn’t tell what it was. And, when he started relaying her exploits to Dez, those remarkable eyes narrowed even further. Other than that one, single tell, she had a fantastic poker face. Her body remained relaxed. Even the loose grip she had on her weapon remained unchanged.

 _Priceless,_ he thought. _This is going to be fun._

And so far, it had been. Sure, they faced the possibility of death and disembowelment every day, but at least they’d had a few laughs. For someone fresh out of a Vault, Q was hell on wheels in a fight, a fucking murder machine. And though it had become something of a habit for Deacon to quip “We made that look easy,” after the bullets stopped flying, they both knew the resulting corpses were mostly her handiwork.

In Deacon’s line of work he’d become an expert on reading faces, and hers told a particularly fascinating tale. She always looked faintly sad after a fight. Sad, even as she stripped the bodies clean of any useful supplies. Sad and a little disbelieving. He could easily read the thoughts going through her mind, even as her hands went through the now-familiar motions. Was this really her, going through this dead man’s pockets for spare ammo? Was this her life now, the woman she had to become to get her son back? He didn’t have to answer her unspoken questions. They both knew what the answers were, anyway. And her face always went through the same changes in the end: sad to resigned, then resolved and, finally, remote. Locked down completely.

Yes. For Shaun she would do anything. For Shaun, she had to.

Nothing in this world was gentle anymore. Not even Quinn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, again, for reading.
> 
> So I told myself I wasn't going to do this - post multiple parts in the same week - because there's no way I'll keep up with that kind of posting schedule. But it was ready, and just sitting there, and I got a little excited by the positive response.
> 
> I'm shooting for once-a-week updates from here on out.


	3. Maybe I Need a Hobby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which whiskey is drunk and challenges are issued.

“Do you think they have her? Amelia Stockton?”

Deacon blinked and forced his mind back to the present. Quinn had finished her nightly weapon maintenance and was now looking at him expectantly, holding out the previously-promised bottle of cheap whiskey. Stubbing out his cigarette and dropping it into an empty tin can, he reached for the bottle, took a swig, grimaced. It did not go down smoothly. Most of the good stuff had been ransacked long ago.

“Not inside, but they know where she is. That ruined caravan we found screams as much. Someone was sloppy with their cleanup.”

“Yeah.” She accepted the bottle back and gazed out over the landscape.

Since she seemed to be lost in thought he felt free to watch her openly. Even after so long of doing that, both before she came to the Railroad and after, he still hadn’t tired of it. She was different and that made her interesting. Or so he tried to tell himself.

It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, though he thought she was. Her skin was flawless. No signs of rad damage, none of the fine lines and weather chafing common on nearly everyone else. Tanned a soft honey-gold after her time on the road, it lay smooth over sharp, high cheekbones and a stubborn jaw. Her eyes were gold, too, a pale, amber-brown almost the exact shade of the whiskey they shared. She had thick, curly dark hair that was almost always pulled back into a braid or topknot. He’d never seen it down, but was pretty sure it would fall past her shoulders to brush the tops of her breasts if she left it loose. Direct sunlight brought out hidden strands of red and gold.

She was tall, for a woman. Almost exactly his height, in fact. And that damn vault suit – her usual go-to outfit under protective, shadowed leather armor - was formfitting enough that he knew every inch of her was firm, lean muscle. All long legs and high, rounded breasts – he’d memorized every line, every curve and indentation. Studied them endlessly. Purely in the interest of accurate intel, of course. At first. And later because, well, what red-blooded man _wouldn’t_ look when a woman like that was stretched out on her stomach like a fucking banquet while she lined up a clean head shot, and her ass was right _there_ outlined so clearly in clinging blue fabric, and who knew a _vault suit_ , of all things, could look so fucking sexy? He’d composed several poems in honor of that ass alone, and … geez, he really needed to get a hobby. Quinn had enough on her plate already without him drooling over her like an uncontrollable pervert.

The Railroad was steadily increasing the number of missions that needed her deft touch. Garvey and The Minutemen didn’t seem capable of taking a shit without her guidance. The Brotherhood had been sniffing around lately, and was awfully quick to pounce any time their travels took her within a mile of their Camden headquarters. And her son was still out there, somewhere.

And all that was far more important than his increasingly powerful desire to know what she tasted like - _(probably tart and sweet all at once and more addictive than any chem),_ and how her skin felt - _(smooth and slick, like heated satin),_ and what sounds she made when she came - _(whispers and moans and broken, ragged gasps, hot breath in his ear and maybe the graze of her teeth along the lobe)_. In her case his mind was always eager to provide the missing possibilities in sheer, torturous detail. All in the interest of accurate intel, of course. And future spank material. Even as he thought that, Quinn brought the whiskey bottle up for a drink. He had to look away when her lips touched the tip of it.

Spontaneous erections hadn’t been a problem since he was a teenager. They were almost embarrassingly common now. If she only knew how often it happened when she was simply walking, or breathing, or dropping innuendo into the conversation with that little smile on her face because she knew how much it tripped him up, and sometimes the light hit her just right and he wanted to sink his fingers into her hair, really get a handful, and use it to drag her closer for a taste - just one taste - all lips and teeth and tangled tongues, breathing each other's air. Only how could he hope to stop himself at just one taste? Short answer was: he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. No way.  
  
_"Why? Are you offering to probe me, Deacon?"_

Christ, if only.

He shifted, trying to discreetly ease the pressure against his jeans. He seriously needed to get a hobby. He was good with knots. Maybe he’d take up macramé, or some shit like that. Could masturbation be considered a hobby?

“Deacon?”

He had to clear his throat before he could respond. “… yeah?”

“Tell me something true.”

That made him smile. This had become a game, of sorts, ever since he’d given Quinn his ‘recall code’. She’d called him on the lie of course, pretty much immediately. He still wasn’t sure why he’d done it in the first place. It was certainly one of the least believable lies he’d ever told. Habit, maybe. He handed deceptions out like bottlecaps, barely even thought about what he was saying anymore. He’d lived that way for so long, not just years but decades, now, that even for someone like her it was hard to stop.

So one night, after all the walking and shooting was done and they’d set up camp in a relatively safe location, she’d asked for a truth. It didn’t have to be anything major, she’d quickly explained after seeing his hesitation. It didn’t have to be something really personal or painful. She trusted him to watch her back in a fight, or to guard her while she slept. She’d trusted him with her life. If they were going to continue traveling together, she needed to know he trusted her with his. It was little enough to ask. Put like that, how could he not?

It was still one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

She passed him the bottle again, stretching her legs out and crossing them at the ankles. When he looked her way he found her watching him patiently. Not for the first time, he wondered how much those whiskey-gold eyes actually saw.

“Something true, huh?” He took a drink. Maybe all the nerves in his throat had died from the first sip, but it seemed to go down more smoothly now. Warmth was building in his stomach that had nothing to do with chronic sexual frustration.

“That was the question, yes.”

“More like demand.”

She shrugged. “Whatever.”

“'Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true,'” he quoted, smiling a little.

“I’m pretty sure Proust didn’t have _claiming to be a synth_ in mind when he said that.”

“You’ll never let that one go, huh? Also, the lady knows her Proust.” Deacon toasted her with the whiskey bottle and took yet another sip. It was almost good now. Or maybe his tastebuds had finally given up the fight.

“It was one of the biggest pieces of bullshit that I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing. Also, the lady knows you’re evading,” she replied, giving him a half-smile.

He let out a melodramatic sigh, stalling. If she only knew some of the ‘truths’ he’d kept buried. Maybe she wouldn’t be so eager to have him hanging around. She certainly wouldn’t be asking him any more questions.

“A truth. Hmm, what to reveal? What … to … reveal …” She opened her mouth to speak and he held up a silencing hand. “Okay, okay. Geez, anyone ever told you that patience is a virtue? Here’s one: I’m really a ginger.”

“Really?” She reached for the bottle, grinning. “No wonder you wear that wig all the time.”

“It’s not, like, carrot-orange or anything. I don’t think. It’s been a while since I let it grow out enough to check.”

“I don’t blame you.” She swiveled to face him, folding her legs and leaning forward to study him more closely. “You know, I really can’t picture you as a redhead. Let me see. Take the wig off.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked nicely?”

“Demanded.”

“Whatever.”

“You don’t believe me?” He injected a world of hurt into his voice.

“Let’s say I’m forever skeptical.”

“That hurts, Q. If I were going to lie to you …”

She let out a strangled laugh. “If? Really?”

“… you know I’d come up with something better than that. And touché.”

“Everyone has an off day. And you’re not as young as you used to be.”

“Low blow from someone who’s staring down two centuries, herself.”

She snorted. “Fair enough. I still think you should take the wig off.”

If there was one drawback to basically being a professional liar, it was that sometimes his mouth just acted before his brain could catch up. Which almost never led to anything good. This was one of those times. He knew it even as the words spilled out.

“There are other ways to check my sincerity, you know.” Fucking whiskey. Fucking mouth.

She cocked an eyebrow at him and he summoned up a close approximation of his usual grin. It was tough to do when every muscle in his body was tensed. Her eyebrow remained up. Unhurriedly, giving her plenty of time to protest, Deacon reached for his zipper. She didn’t stop him. Instead her eyes followed his hand.

That considering gaze traced its way down his chest to his stomach, then further, so slowly he could almost feel it like a physical touch. His skin prickled in response, gooseflesh following the same path. His cock twitched in anticipation, and why the hell had he chosen to draw her attention there when his current problem was trying its best to burst through his pants to shake her hand?

She took another drink from the bottle, and was it his imagination or did her lips linger near the tip of it just like they would if … oh, this had been a very bad idea. Her eyes rose to meet his and, yes, that was a challenge he saw, and he had never been more grateful for his ever-present sunglasses because he was sure his own eyes were open just a little too widely behind them. Oh why in hell had he said that? Fucking _whiskey_.

Silence stretched, taut, between them. His hand still hovered near the button of his jeans. His breathing sounded too loud to his own ears and the cool night suddenly felt a bit warm. Quinn’s mouth slowly drew away from the bottle. His gaze locked onto her lips. As if she could feel him looking, she licked them. Smiled.

She was fucking calling his bluff.

Oh, two could play at that game.

“Maybe I should stand? Give you a better view?” His voice was almost completely steady. Maybe it was a little rougher than usual but, overall, kudos to his outstanding acting abilities.

Quinn remained infuriatingly silent. She still wore that tiny smile. Her eyes flicked down, lingered there, then rose back to his face. Her smile widened. She didn’t think he’d do it. Or maybe she wanted him to? This had been a Very. Bad. Idea. And he was completely overthinking it the way he did everything else and … oh fuck it.

Deacon surged to his feet, flicking open the top button of his jeans. He was almost painfully aroused, now, and it was more-than-evident if she hadn’t noticed already.

The night was utterly quiet. The sound of his zipper was very loud.

She glanced down again as if unable to stop herself. Both eyebrows rose this time and she blindly reached for the bottle, fingertips fumbling against the glass. He glanced down, too. Noticed distantly that the thin white cotton of his underwear outlined everything very clearly. And he didn't give a damn. She wanted a truth? Well, here it was.

He cocked an eyebrow at her in a silent challenge of his own. “Still want that proof?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't sure about this bit, but too much tinkering and all that. Hopefully it reads well.
> 
> I also feel I should mention that, in reading the fantastic stories that have been posted here, I came across one that inspired part of this section. So I'd like to send a thank you to Khirsah, and [Tomorrow is a Long Time](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5576467/chapters/12853405) for that inspiration.
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	4. Not How I Imagined It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things don't always progress as planned. But can still be fun.

Well. This was not how she’d expected the night to go. It was, in fact, so far beyond how she’d expected the night to go that Quinn found herself floundering. For the first time since she’d climbed out of that damn pod, she had no idea what to do, what move to make next. She hated that.

Deacon stood silent before her, deceptively casual. In fact, if it hadn't been for something in the set of his shoulders, the tiny flicker of the muscles in his jaw and, of course, the evidence below his belt that kept drawing her attention like a lodestone, she'd have sworn it was just any other night in camp.

Life with her husband had been comfortable, routine. Safe. And so very boring, sometimes. As much as she’d loved Nate, loved being his wife and Shaun’s mother, a part of her had always wanted something more. No, if she were being honest with herself, she’d _needed_ something more. To feel as if she’d left some kind of mark on the world. And here? Now? She finally had the chance to make a difference, not just once but every damn day. It fed something in her. And she had every intention of doing even more to help, given the opportunity. If she’d learned one thing since her thaw, it was that opportunities were plentiful in the ‘Wealth.

Still, all that giving was, slowly but surely, taking its toll. So why not take a little something for herself, for once? Deacon was, quite obviously, ready and willing. She swallowed, gaze lingering again. His erection seemed to grow even more as she watched. It was really testing the limits of his underwear, now.

"Keep staring like that and it'll never go down," he commented idly.

His voice was, almost, the same insouciant tone she was used to. Casual, unconcerned – he’d always given the impression he came along for the ride purely for the entertainment value. She'd never questioned his motivations. Indeed, his nonchalance was a welcome balance to her own driven need to find answers. Avenging Nate, getting Shaun back, that had been her focus as soon as she was able to think clearly enough to formulate a plan. And, all do-gooding aside, it was still her main focus.

Relationships, though, or even just sex? Not even on the radar. It had been literally centuries since she’d had to consider either, after all. And it had been even longer since she’d been able to satisfy any of her own, purely selfish, desires. In her old life every decision she’d forced herself to make had been for the good of Nate and Shaun, for their growing family. Even the law degree she’d worked so hard for had been reduced to a bragging point, a pretty piece of paper hanging on the wall. Her own dreams were suppressed in the name of family and tradition.

Deacon stood patiently, thumbs hooked into the open waistband of his jeans, waiting on her word. This man, this moment, was hers alone, if she had the courage to seize them.

Quinn set down the whiskey bottle, the glass clinking against the wood of the porch with a dull thud. Her heart was pounding so loudly it seemed impossible he couldn’t hear it, but she managed, somehow, to keep herself from leaping up and jumping on him.

Unhurriedly, her eyes never leaving his face, she rose to her feet and closed the distance between them. This close she could feel the heat coming off his body, smell the not-unpleasant combination of whiskey and tobacco and the faint, acrid tang of gunpowder. He remained absolutely still, kept his hands at his sides, and she was grateful for that, although a small part of her wished he would just grab her, kiss her, take the decision and its likely consequences out of her hands. Instead, he allowed her to move at her own pace. If it weren’t for the rapid flicker of his pulse beating at the base of his throat she’d have sworn he was unaffected by her closeness.

He was too good at concealing his true feelings. She needed to see his eyes.

Lifting her hands to his face she pulled his sunglasses free and tossed them aside. Underneath, his eyes were closed. Quinn stepped closer, their bodies almost, but not quite, touching.

“Deacon? Look at me,” she said softly.

His breath came out in a tiny, explosive rush, tickling her face, and his lids flicked open. For the first time she was able to see his eyes.

“Blue,” she whispered, fingertips tracing a feather-light line along the straight, dark slash of one eyebrow, then continuing down his cheekbone to his jawline.

He ground his teeth at her touch. This close she could see the muscles work, could feel the coiled restraint that lay within him. Funny, she’d never thought of Deacon as the predatory type before. With his eyes now exposed, she saw how wrong she’d been. She saw everything he’d managed to keep hidden for so long.

Leaning forward, she brushed her lips against his once, and then again. Then she settled one hand at the base of his neck, fingers digging into the tensed muscles of his shoulder and back, and kissed him a third time. Her lips lingered, moving against his leisurely as if they’d all the time in the world. She flicked her tongue against his upper lip, and he obligingly opened his mouth so that she could explore him more fully. He tasted strongly of the whiskey they’d shared, faintly of cigarettes. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, bit down gently.

And he snapped.

Deacon grabbed her by the hips, pulling her flush against him in one smooth motion. She gasped at the contact and he drank in that quiet sound, his fingers convulsively tightening. She coiled her arms around his neck, pressed closer, and the feel of his chest against her suddenly aching breasts was even better than she'd imagined. The hard, hot length of him nudged right at the juncture of her thighs, an unspoken promise.

He ground his hips against hers, a slow roll that had her pulling away to gasp for air. His lips traveled along her jaw and trailed hot, wet kisses down her neck. Each one felt like a brand, and when he nipped the spot where her neck met her shoulder she let out a soft cry, body quivering involuntarily. She felt his lips move against her skin in a smile, and his tongue traced the imprints left by his teeth.

She needed more.

Hands jerky, she pulled at the hem of his t-shirt, trying to drag it up and over his head without leaving his warmth. He seemed reluctant to let go of her, but obligingly moved away enough to allow her to tug it off. His wig came with it. She flung them both aside, glancing away from him long enough to make sure she hadn’t tossed both into the campfire, and then returned her attention to his newly exposed chest.

He was more muscular than she’d expected, and his skin was deliciously warm. Quinn pressed her palms flat against his stomach, running them up over the ridged muscle there to his small, tightly furled nipples. She circled them with her middle fingers, pinched lightly. His fingertips dug into her hips, almost hard enough to leave marks. She rested one hand in the center of his chest, felt the rapid beat of his heart there. Watched as he struggled to control his breathing. When she finally met his eyes again, she found them regarding her intently.

“Do you want to take this inside?”

The laughter bubbled up out of nowhere. “With the bloodbugs?”

Grinning shamelessly, he leaned forward to kiss her again. “Maybe upstairs then.”

“By the corpse in the bathroom? Wow, Deacon. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet. Take me now, you stud.”

He chuckled, lips returning to her neck to press another kiss there, just under her jaw. “I’ll admit this isn’t how I’d imagined our first time to go. Not that I’m complaining.”

“You … imagined this?”

“More times than you probably want to hear about, Q,” he whispered, breath hot and tickling against her ear. He closed his teeth gently against the lobe and tugged. She shivered.

Deacon’s hands slid up and over her hips, over the soft, slightly oily leather of her pants. When his nails grazed the exposed skin at her waist she jumped. She felt pinned by his hands, couldn’t move even if she’d wanted to as they glided up, along her ribcage, then paused at the zipper of her short leather jacket. He raised his head to meet her eyes, lifted an eyebrow in query, and she nodded permission. His eyes left hers to track the zipper’s leisurely downward progress and then he slid the jacket from her shoulders in the same achingly slow movements, leaving her clad in a thin, faded red V-neck. He pressed a kiss at the dip of the V, tongue flicking out to trace the fine skin between her breasts, and she inhaled sharply.

Her nipples pebbled visibly under her shirt, and he turned his attention there, lips closing over first one and then the other through the fabric. Heat, gentle suction, the barest graze of his teeth, it all felt almost – reverent. An act of worship. And when he pulled the V-neck over her head and repeated those actions against her bare skin, her head fell back of its own accord, fingers digging into his shoulders to hold herself upright.

Too long. It had been far too long.

She pushed gently against him and he immediately released her. Those crystal blue eyes of his were glazed and kept dipping back to her breasts. He licked his lips, as if to savor the taste of her, and heat pooled in her stomach at being the source of that hunger. This was not the laid-back, easygoing Deacon she’d grown used to. Not anymore. Quinn lifted her arms to release her hair from its messy bun, and his focus returned to her face as it fell down around her shoulders. Gaze locking with his, she moved her hands down over her shoulders to her breasts, circling her nipples with her fingertips. He groaned.

“You’re killing me, Q.”

“I haven’t even started, D,” she said, reaching for the button of her pants.

He held his breath as she unbuttoned them, released it in an explosive rush as she shimmied them down and over her hips, leaving her clad in her boots and the briefest of white cotton panties. He reached for her and she held up one hand to halt his progression. Saw his hands fist briefly before returning to his sides.

She wasn’t finished torturing him yet. This new Deacon was far too interesting.

Quinn smiled, pausing for a moment in the flickering light of their campfire to let him look his fill. His eyes devoured her with naked greed. That scrutiny sharpened when she cupped her own breast with one hand and slid the other inside her panties. She was wet, so swollen and sensitive; even she was surprised at how much so. Tracing her clit lightly with one fingertip, she couldn’t stop the reflexive jerk of her hips against her hand. She slid her fingers further along the slick folds between her thighs. Could hear the wet sounds they made when she dipped the middle two inside herself. And knew he could hear it too when she saw the muscles in his throat convulse as he swallowed. He watched the motions of her hand, barely concealed by a scrap of white cotton, as it set a slow and deliberate pace.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pushing his jeans down in a jerky motion. They pooled around his ankles and he kicked them free. His shoes and underwear followed just as quickly, leaving him naked to the cool night air. And this time it was her turn to look her fill. Long legs, narrow hips, strong thighs. And his cock - long, thick … perfect. So hard it looked nearly painful, jutting out at an almost right angle to his body. He mirrored her actions, palming himself in one hand and stroking at a pace meant to tease, to prolong the moment, and she let out a strangled laugh. A drop of pre-cum glistened at the tip, and she licked her lips at the sight.

Quinn pulled her hand, reluctantly, from her panties and brought her fingers to her mouth. Knew he could see the way they glistened as she licked them clean. When he released his cock and started to move toward her she held up her hand to stop him again.

“Not yet.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake …”

Ignoring his muttered protest she turned, presenting him with her back, and hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panties. Bending, she drew them down over her legs, knew what he saw as she did. And, judging from the sharp inhale that came behind her, he very much liked the view. She knew his patience was at the breaking point even before she felt the warmth of his body at her back and his hands roughly spinning her to face him.

Digging his fingers into her hair, he grabbed a handful and used it to drag her, unresisting, against him for another kiss. There was nothing restrained in him now, his mouth took and she gave, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him as closely as she could. They both moaned a little at the skin-on-skin contact. He used his grip on her hair to angle her head for better access while the other hand traced a line of fire down her spine to her ass. His erection was pressed between them, so close to where she wanted, needed, it to be, and she couldn’t help but rub against it restlessly. Suddenly desperate to touch him, she tried to slide her hand between their bodies, but as soon as she reached her goal he broke away, breathless. Very firmly, he removed her hand.

“Don’t. Or this will be over before we even get started.”

“But I want to feel you,” she protested, and then promptly lost her train of thought in his next ravenous kiss. He backed her toward one of their bedrolls and lowered her to the cool material.

“This is not how it was supposed to go,” he whispered, kissing her lips, her neck, then licking his way down to her breasts. His clever tongue, that oh-so-clever tongue, circled a hot, wet path from one nipple to the other. Moaning, she arched her back into his mouth, cupping his head and pressing him closer. When he slid one hand between her thighs to touch her pussy she cried out, rising against his fingers.

“Christ, you’re so wet,” he whispered, lifting his head from her breasts.

His fingertips lightly traced the folds of her trembling slit. Biting her lip, she glanced down in time to see him part her just as gently. Such knowing, careful hands. He took his time exploring, watching her reactions carefully, noting which touches made her stomach muscles quiver, which made her hips jerk, what made her cry out and reach for his hand because it was just this side of too much. Her skin was lightly sheened with sweat now and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d so badly wanted, _needed_ , to be fucked. Her muscles were strung so tightly they trembled and, for the first time in her life, words failed her.

Taking her lips again, he slid his tongue inside her mouth as easily as he slid a finger inside her greedy core. Pumping her hips shamelessly against his hand, she pulled at his head, his shoulders, anything that would bring him closer. When he added a second finger, she moaned into his mouth. He slid them in and out, slowly at first and then faster, and she moved against them restlessly. So close. So very close, now. When the pad of his thumb grazed her clit, pressing, flicking, circling, she shattered with a cry, pulsing against his fingers in hard, star-bright contractions. She distantly felt him pull back, knew he was watching her face as she crested, and didn’t care.

Two hundred years was too goddamn long for this.

She was more than wet, more than open and ready for him when she felt the blunt head of his cock nudge against her slit. Quinn kept her eyes closed, the better to enjoy the delicious slide of his entry, the feel of him stretching and filling her. They both held their breath until he’d encased himself fully within her in one long, smooth stroke. Deacon let out a shuddering breath, his forehead pressed into the hollow of her neck. Experimentally, she tightened herself around him and he groaned, the sound vibrating against her skin. Running her fingers lightly down his spine, she could feel the tension there, the strain of holding himself back. He was trying so hard not to hurt her. All she felt was impatience. Need.

Trying to encourage him without words, she wrapped her legs around his hips, undulating against him in silent demand. He groaned against her neck, grabbing her face and pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against her lips. His hips surged forward, pressing deeper and it was her turn to groan when he ground himself against her clit. They moved together, skin sliding against sweat-slicked skin, all clutching fingers, frantic kisses and whispered entreaties riding broken, ragged gasps. When he reached down to touch her, circling the spot where they joined and the swollen, sensitive flesh above it, she broke again with a cry, nails digging into his shoulders, pussy clamping down in greedy, rippling pulses, milking him. He rode through her orgasm, teeth gritted and eyes clenched tight. Faster, then faster still, leisurely strokes giving way to harder, jerkier movement. She kept up a whispered stream of profanity in his ear, flicking her tongue along the edge of it, matching his speed, spreading herself wide for easier access until his whole body seemed to draw in on itself. Pulling out, he sat back on his heels, panting, stroking himself rapidly, his breathing harsh and his stomach muscles tightening. She watched, fascinated, as his balls contracted, his cock jerked, and he came in thick, ropy strings over her stomach. She dragged a lazy finger through the mess, licked it clean as he watched.

“Fuck,” he said roughly.

She laughed, stretching languorously under his regard. “Indeed. That was, well …”

Leaning forward on braced arms, he kissed her gently. Grateful for the reprieve, she returned the kiss with interest, humming her pleasure as his weight settled between her thighs once more. For one long moment they stared at one another from inches apart. She couldn’t quite read his expression, but when Deacon gently smoothed the tangle of her hair back from her face she felt a sudden flutter of doubt. Easy to get caught up in the moment, but now that it was over the ghosts of her past rose up once more.

Of course he noticed, immediately.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “No regrets, Q. Do you think he’d want that for you?”

She pressed her lips tightly together then shook her head. Nate had been many things, but selfish was not one of them. It didn’t quell her doubt entirely, but the knots in her stomach eased a little.

Deacon waggled his eyebrows at her, familiar grin slipping back into place like a comfortable mask. He leaned down to nip at her upper lip playfully. “Ready to go again?”

She laughed and flipped them both in one smooth movement so that he lay on his back with her astride his hips. His discarded shirt lay within reach and she leaned over to grab it, wiping her stomach, then his for good measure. He folded his hands behind his head and watched her impromptu clean up, grin still in place and turning decidedly smug.

“Sorry,” she said, tossing the shirt aside again.

“By all means. Not like it was my Sunday best.”

“So,” she said, threading her fingers in her hair to push it back. His eyes dropped down to her chest so she bounced a little, making him chuckle. “You were saying something about this not being how you imagined things to go? I’m curious.”

“What a surprise.”

“How exactly did you imagine this? Us?”

He traced his palms up her thighs, nails lightly scoring the skin. “Want the details, or the quick and dirty version?”

“Oh,” she inhaled when his fingers curled inward, hovering just shy of touching her. “I think I’ll need details. Lots of details.”

“More than happy to oblige, Q.” He sat up, looping his arms around her waist and drawing her close. “In my head, it started like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this bit was, quite possibly, more terrifying than posting all the others combined. Thanks for sticking with the story so far! More next week!
> 
> If you're in the mood for more Deaconmance, might I suggest [Old-Timers or Love Likes Stratagem and Subterfuge](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5496740/chapters/12698756) by Cloak_n_Dagger? 
> 
> I'm lucky enough to have her as my beta reader, she's unbelievably talented, and her story is well worth a read or ten. Go ... look. Get your Deacon fix.


	5. Awkward Morning Afters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q makes everything that much more awkward. Way to go, Q!

Warm. She finally felt warm. Almost safe.

Quinn couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt anything other than frozen, nurturing a small, cold kernel of mixed fear and bitterness nestled somewhere near her heart. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel the soft light of dawn breaking. Shifting, half-wondering why her bed was so hard, she felt arms tighten around her waist and heard a sleepy protest at her movement.

Still drifting in that drowsy state between asleep and awake, she burrowed closer to the firm, hot length of the body pressed against her back, pulling his arms closer like a blanket. With a sigh she relaxed into the comfortable heat. Lips pressed a gentle kiss to the delicate skin just under her ear and a pair of hands began interesting forays up and down her stomach.

She smiled, stroking the bare hip within reach. Shaun would be waking up soon, ready to be fed and cuddled and tended to but, until then, the morning belonged to them. And she knew just how she wanted to spend those precious few moments. Spreading her thighs slightly in invitation, she coaxed one of his hands between them. When his fingers began playing with the soft tuft of curls there she let out a soft sigh, relaxing even more against the hard chest behind her.

“I missed you, Nate,” she whispered, eyes still closed.

His hands stilled.

Eyes still closed, she rolled over, pressing a kiss to the pulse point at the base of his throat. It was good, so very good, to hold him again. The scent of his skin filled her nose as she nibbled her way up his neck to his jaw - musky, slightly spicy. Different somehow, but good. Slipping a hand between them, she wrapped her fingers around his morning erection, sliding slowly up and down the length of it and dipping her thumb into the small groove at the tip. Body jerking against hers, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist to stop her attentions. She tightened her grip even as he gently tried to free himself.

“Um, Q?”

That was wrong. Nate had never called her that. And the voice, the voice wasn’t right.

Confused, she blinked fully awake to find blue eyes, decidedly not Nate’s, staring at her from inches away. Deacon wore a strained expression and she realized, horrified, that she still held his cock.

“Oh my God, Deacon.” Cheeks burning, she scrambled to let go and put some distance between them. “I’m so sorry. I was half-asleep, I …”

“… thought I was your husband,” he finished neutrally, watching her rapid backpedal with shuttered eyes. “It’s totally cool. I understand.”

She sat up, back braced against the wall of the boathouse, and drew her knees to her chest. How could she have been so thoughtless? Nate was gone, forever. And she _knew_ that. So far she’d managed to avoid thinking about it by remaining constantly on the move, distracting herself with little things in her rare moments of stillness. She’d never even talked about him – not to Deacon, or Preston, not even to Piper or Cait, though all of them had, at one time or another, indicated they’d listen if she needed them to. Despite those kind offers, she didn’t _want_ to discuss it. To do so would be like letting go, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to do that yet.

Six months, give or take. She’d been traveling for six months since her thaw and her emotions when she remembered Nate, remembered being trapped and watching him die, were still much too ragged and raw to face. Maybe that made her a coward, but if it came to a choice between evasion and a complete mental breakdown she’d choose cowardice every time. She had no time for a breakdown. Avoidance was better. Maybe not healthier, but it was definitely easier.

For several moments they sat together in strained silence, the things left unsaid piling up between them. Then the porch’s ancient wood creaked as Deacon finally stood. Quinn listened to his movements with her face turned carefully away as he unzipped his pack and began rummaging through his collection of disguises. When she risked a glance in his direction she found him crouched not far from where she sat. He remained nude, save for his sunglasses. Of course he’d retrieved the sunglasses first. His cock was still at half-mast, and her cheeks heated again with shame even as she remembered the heat of it against her palm.

“Deacon, I’m so sor-“

“Q, really,” he said, sunglasses turning her way for a moment. In them she could see her mirrored reflection, looking stricken and small. “It’s fine. We’re good. Now, what do you think – drifter? Caravan worker? Sweater vest and slacks? What’s the appropriate dress code for this place? Casual or semi-formal?”

While she appreciated his attempt to return some semblance of normalcy to their morning, she couldn’t help but speak up again. “Deacon?”

He let out an aggravated sigh. “Just stop, Q. You don’t have to explain any-”

“I don’t regret last night. Really. I just … wanted you to know that much.”

He was silent for a long moment, presumably studying her face from behind concealing lenses. “Oh. Well … that’s good, then.”

“I’m just going to go get dressed,” she said, taking a deep breath and standing.

He nodded without replying and without looking at her again. She was partly grateful, considering they were both still nude and the moment still felt completely awkward. And yet there was a small, loudly persistent part of her that was disappointed he didn’t even try to sneak a peek. She determinedly silenced that tiny voice. Passing behind him on her way to grab her own pack, she paused, then impulsively bent and kissed the top of his head. “Thank you. For everything. I, um, I really enjoyed myself.”

 _Smooth, Quinn. Real fucking smooth. Sorry for confusing you with my dead husband, but hey, thanks for the great fuck_. She winced, shook her head, and headed for the door to the boathouse. Even getting dressed in the middle of bloodbug remnants was preferable to choking on her monumental foolishness.

His reply, when it came, was so soft she almost didn’t hear it and laced with an almost tangible thread of bitterness that he couldn’t quite conceal. “Anytime, babe.”

Pausing, she glanced back, but he was pulling on a pair of jeans with his back to her. Biting her lip, she slipped through the door, closing it behind her with a soft, definitive click.

* * *

The trip back to Covenant was a silent and uneventful one. Half a dozen times Quinn opened her mouth to make conversation and then stopped again, frustrated back into silence. What the hell could she say? Apologize again? That had been singularly unhelpful the last few times she’d tried it.

What she wouldn’t give for a nice, distracting super-mutant attack.

After what felt like an eternity the walls of Covenant loomed in the distance, growing ever larger as they approached. She could see Swanson, the guard, sitting in his usual spot by the front gates, watching them out of small, cold eyes.

“Covenant,” Deacon commented casually as they drew within hearing distance. “For a new settlement it’s looking good. I’ve been meaning to pay a visit.”

Roleplay. She could do roleplay. At this point she felt so twitchy and ill-at-ease it would be a fucking relief to pretend to be someone else for a while.

“Oh, it’s beautiful what they’ve done here,” she said, trying to project just the right amount of enthusiasm while ignoring the feel of Swanson’s gaze scuttling up and down her body, lingering on her breasts and leather-clad legs. He’d done the same thing yesterday, and while she’d hoped that the novelty of a new arrival had since worn off, it apparently had not. It still made her flesh crawl. The whole place just felt wrong.

“Wait until you see inside,” she continued. “It’s just like a little piece of the Old World.” Wondering, briefly, if a good dramatic gesture was in order here, she settled for pressing a hand to her heart and pasting what she hoped was a wistful smile on her face.

Deacon’s lips twitched.

“You’re back,” Swanson said, giving them a friendly smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “And you brought a friend.”

“I am. And I did.”

“I insisted,” Deacon said, holding out his hand to Swanson for an enthusiastic shake. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to finally get the chance to pay a visit. We’ve been spending most of our time out by Bunker Hill and those parts but, between you and me,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Morals down there just aren’t what they used to be. You know how it is.”

Swanson nodded sagely. “You’re telling me.”

Quinn moved away from the two of them and sat primly on the short stone wall running along the left side of the gates. Crossing her legs and staring out over the river, she waited patiently for Deacon to work his magic. At this distance she could hear maybe one word in five of their low-voiced conversation which, after a few moments, mostly seemed to involve a lot of knowing chuckles and manly shoulder pats.

“Honey, c’mere a minute,” Deacon called.

 _Honey?_ Glancing over in surprise, it took only one look at the big, shit-eating grin on Deacon’s face to cause an immediate sinking sensation in her stomach. She should never have left them alone. God only knew what lies he’d been spinning during her absence.

“I hear congratulations are in order, ma’am,” Swanson said as she cautiously approached them.

“Oh?”

When she moved within grabbing distance, Deacon reached out and slung an overly affectionate arm around her waist. He drew her close and planted a noisy kiss on her cheek. She covered his hand with hers, digging her nails into the back of it while trying to look demure.

“She was a tough one to convince, let me tell you,” he said cheerfully, adding a little squeeze. “My Annie’s a firecracker, that’s for sure … in every way that counts.”

Swanson laughed knowingly, eyes flicking down to her chest. Deacon laughed too. Skin crawling, Quinn resisted the incredibly strong urge to plant an elbow in his ribs.

“Well, he begged me for so long it was almost pitiful,” she said lightly. “Some days I’m not sure I shouldn’t just shoot him and cut my losses.”

Swanson laughed uproariously again. Deacon pinched her.

“Well, if that ever happens, you just pay old Swanson a visit. He’ll take good care of you.”

“Careful there, buddy, no poaching. I saw her first. Besides, that’s the thing about my Annie. She can take care of herself. And me.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively at the other man, giving Quinn an affectionate little squeeze.

“Oh, honey. You noticed,” she said flatly.

“I like to watch you do your thing, babe. You make it so worthwhile.” He planted a kiss on the tip of her nose.

“So when are you two making it official?”

“First we’ve got to find a safe place to plant down roots. We thought about setting up our own farm, but Annie has her heart set on a community. Someplace that feels real … neighborly. You know?”

“Well you won’t find a friendlier place than Covenant, that’s for sure. We look out for each other here.”

“It sure looks safe enough,” Deacon nodded, eyeing the walls. “Mind if I take a peek inside? Annie told me what a beautiful job you’ve done with the place.”

Swanson hesitated, then nodded and headed for the gate. “Sure, go on in.”

“Thanks buddy. We’ll be sure to send you an invite to the wedding. Come on, honey.” Grabbing her hand, he sauntered forward.

“What was the point of all that?” Quinn hissed softly as he led her inside. “Why didn’t you just take their stupid SAFE test and be done with it?”

“Where’s the fun in that, Q? I don’t want to get rusty. And besides, seeing the look on your face? Bonus.”

“Remind me to strangle you when we’re done here.”

He laughed. “Worth it.”

Covenant looked much the same as it had yesterday: quietly thriving, with pristine houses and clean, well-dressed settlers. And, just like yesterday, she felt decidedly out of place in her worn, battle-scarred leathers. Deacon looked around with interest as the gates closed silently behind them on well-oiled hinges. He seemed unconcerned with the appraising glances they received from passers-by, aiming his biggest, friendliest smile at the ones bold enough to make eye contact.

“Wow, this place kinda has that ‘prison-camp chic’ look going for it, huh?” He kept his voice low, leaning close to murmur in her ear.

She suppressed a shiver. “Yeah, I think the barbed wire at the top of the walls adds that extra-homey touch.”

“I absolutely agree. You should consider something like that for Sanctuary.”

“I’ll take it under consideration, _honey_ ,” she replied, placing quiet emphasis on the last word. “Maybe we can register for some at Diamond City Surplus before our impending nuptials.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “And won’t that be a joyous occasion? Maybe Codsworth can give you away. Now come on, let’s take the tour.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Place this clean must have some dirty fucking secrets, Q. What are you waiting for? We’ve got people to save and plots to unravel.”

“Fine. I’m still probably strangling you later.”

“Still worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angst overload. I'm not sure where she was keeping it all, but it seems to have spilled out all over this chapter.  
> So many feelings, man.
> 
> Thank you for the hits, the kudos - for reading this far! 
> 
> This is the first thing I've written in an embarrassingly long time, and the fact that you guys are reading and actually seem to be enjoying it - I can't even tell you all how awesome that makes me feel. More soon!


	6. Practically Wasteland Jesus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Q does not actually become the next Messiah.

It was ridiculous to feel jealous of a dead man.

It took one uncomfortable and near-silent trek to Covenant for Deacon to reach this conclusion, but reach it he finally had. Though aware of Q’s uncertain glances, he’d spent the majority of their time on the road wrestling with his irrational spike of jealousy and had, mostly, succeeded in blunting the sharp edges of it. Trying to consider the moment from her point of view had helped. Not much, but a little.

The last man she’d been with would have to have been Nate. Wouldn’t it? And, not to toot his own horn or anything – oh, who was he kidding, he’d always been the first to do that – but they’d pretty much worn each other out as the night went on. To have her leap up in the morning with no thought other than getting started with her day, well, that would have stung even more than her short-lived, dreamy memory lapse.

She’d pretty much stayed relentlessly on the go since leaving the Vault. That much he knew for a fact. Though he’d had to keep his distance – Q was far too perceptive and, sunglasses and rotating disguises or no, would probably have registered a consistently reappearing face – he liked to think he’d have noticed the little changes if she’d grown close in that way with one of her companions. Or, as Deacon preferred to think of them: The _Other_ Guys. Small things, like standing a shade too closely, laughing a bit too brightly, light flirtation and casual touches - he hadn’t seen any of that. If anything, he’d noticed that she generally held herself apart from other people, deflected questions with humor, evasion or short, curt answers, related in a purely superficial way.

Looking at her was like looking in a mirror. He’d lived in much the same way, since … no. No sense in going there. Not even now. Dammit. This was the problem with working solo for so long. He spent far too much time locked inside his own thoughts, which were often counterproductive at best and downright depressing, otherwise.

Regardless, it was still ridiculous to feel jealous of a dead man.

Unfortunately, they’d made great time on the road and Covenant’s walls were within sight. No time to apologize for acting like an ass. And besides, it was show time. He loved show time.

Getting inside the settlement was almost absurdly simple. A deep thinker, Swanson was not. He was so easily distracted that Deacon almost felt sorry for the guy, at least until he saw the way the greaser checked out Q’s ass when he thought nobody was looking. Not that her ass wasn't worth a stare or ten, but still. Sure, he could have played by their rules; he could have taken their little anti-synth test and gone on his merry way. But he preferred, whenever possible, to leave no trace of his passing, even if it was just as a footnote in an underling’s daily diary.

Besides, the cover story he’d chosen gave him a convenient reason to touch Q again.

Come to think of it, if they kept traveling together this could become his new _favorite_ cover story. He’d take any excuse, no matter how flimsy, to erase their awkward morning after and get them back on an even keel. Watching her struggle to maintain the proper devoted-fiancée expression while, at the same time, suppressing the urge to punch him was also highly entertaining. She had a few pointed comments to make to him as they made their way inside the compound, but he was pretty sure she didn’t mean them. At any rate, it was a relief to see the worry and guilt fade from her eyes, even if it was replaced by pique and quasi-homicidal intent.

He also didn’t miss the way she shivered when he leaned in to speak to her.

 _Interesting_ , he thought, suppressing a smile as she stomped her way toward the nearest house. _Wonder how much I can get away with._

He strolled along in her wake, lazily admiring the indignant twitch of her ass. His focus was so complete that, when she stopped abruptly, he almost walked into her. Nodding congenially at an older man who sat comfortably at a battered, though remarkably clean, patio table not far away, Deacon followed her puzzled gaze.

“Why do they need mailboxes outside every house?” With her head cocked, Quinn eyed the offending box in question. “Do they actually write letters to each other here?”

“Dear Jacob: Turned away another dumbass at the gate today. Who do these people think they are, equals? Kisses, Swanson,” Deacon suggested.

“Sounds about right. Let’s see, shall we?” Irritation slipping away, she grinned over her shoulder at him and flipped open the box with a flourish. “Nope, looks like it’s just being used as extra storage for … soap, a baseball and, ooh – bubblegum. Score! I ran out day before yesterday.”

She glanced around to make sure her movements weren’t being watched and then smoothly slipped the gum out of the mailbox. Popping a square into her mouth and chewing contentedly, she tucked the rest of the pack into her zippered vest pocket.

“Not even going to offer me a piece?”

“Nope. Finders keepers,” she drawled. Then she blew a truly impressive bubble, grinning when he popped it with his index finger.

“It’s always sad to see the id brain take over. And here I had you pegged as the last great hope for the Commonwealth.”

“Yeah, yeah, Dr. Freud,” she said absently, then her gaze sharpened. “Also, ‘last, great hope’? Seriously? I mean, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but geez. No pressure or anything.”

Impulsively, Deacon reached out, drawing her attention back to him with his sudden movement. She froze. When he dipped his fingers into her pocket and used it to tug her a little closer, she stopped chewing. He brushed the backs of his fingers deliberately against the soft curve of her breast, taking longer than necessary to pull out the gum, snag a piece for himself, and slide the remainder back into her pocket. Quinn didn’t step away, but she did break eye contact and he was delighted to see that her face had flushed a delicate shade of pink.

Pressing his advantage, he leaned even closer. When he spoke his lips brushed against the outer edge of her ear. “Maybe we can find a couch later. I’ll … ah … psychoanalyze you.”

Her chuckle sounded a bit strained. “Am I supposed to talk about my penis envy?”

“You can talk about whatever you’d like.”

“You know Freud was full of shit, right?” Whiskey gold eyes peeked up at him and a smile played near the corners of her mouth.

“So that’s a ‘no’ on my couch idea, then?”

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

He chuckled low in his throat and saw her swallow at the sound. “Oh, challenge very much accepted, Q.”

A crease formed between her brows as she frowned at him. “I don’t understand you, D.”

“I’m an enigma, a mystery, a …”

“Pain in my ass?” Her tone was light but eyes were still puzzled and wary.

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be. I’m sure I brought the costume for it.”

She laughed and shook her head, holding her hands up in a temporary sign of surrender. “Come on, Casanova. Let’s go meet our prospective neighbors.”

After casually interrogating Talia, their first settler, under the guise of introducing her fiancé to the community, Deacon could immediately see why Q had been so uneasy upon returning from her first Covenant visit. Oh, Talia said all the right words, and in the right order even, but it all felt very … rehearsed. Like something she’d repeated to herself time and again until she was able to recite it upon command. The little crafter shot them furtive glances even after they’d left her and strolled toward the fence surrounding Penny Fitzgerald’s general store.

As soon as they reached a semi-private corner of the yard, Deacon leaned against the fence and, as if overtaken by passion, pulled Quinn against him, nuzzling her neck. “Twitchy, wasn’t she?”

“She was like that yesterday, too,” she answered softly. “Is she still watching us?”

Deacon moved his head just enough to allow a glance over her shoulder. Talia still stood near her workstation, tinkering with something and, sure enough, her eyes were on the pair of them. He let his hands drift down to cup Quinn’s ass, grinning when Talia’s eyes shot wide and she turned immediately away, shoulders hunched defensively against impropriety.

“Not anymore,” he said with satisfaction. Quinn pulled back enough to whack him on the shoulder with a closed fist. “Ow! Not so hard, huh? I’m delicate.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, pulling his hands back up to her waist. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I believe in wholehearted commitment to any role I choose to undertake,” he said innocently. “A hundred and ten percent effort.”

“Of course you do.”

“Especially when that commitment necessitates manhandling you at every opportunity,” he added, hands sliding down again.

“Right. Sure,” she said, gaze dropping to his mouth.

“You’re rethinking my couch proposition, aren’t you,” he whispered, pulling her even closer. Their lips were barely inches apart.

“It hadn’t even crossed my mind,” she replied just as softly, refusing to close the distance. A part of him admired her willpower.

He chuckled. “Liar.”

“Hey, I’m the ‘last, great hope of the Commonwealth’, remember? That means I’m practically Wasteland Jesus.”

The snort slipped out before he could stop it. “I’m … not sure I’d go quite that far, Q.”

“Wasteland Jesus wouldn’t lie.”

“So you really weren’t thinking about finding a comfy couch somewhere,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at her in polite skepticism.

“No.” Looping her arms around his neck she angled her head to whisper in his ear. “I was thinking more of right here.”

For a moment it felt as if his heart stopped beating. And when her tongue traced the outer edge of his ear his breathing stopped, too. “Right … here?”

“What do you think they’d do if I dropped to my knees right now?” Her tone was musing as she trailed a finger down his chest, hooked it into the waistband of his jeans, and gently tugged.

“I know what I’d be doing,” he muttered, eyes scanning their immediate surroundings to see if any settlers were within sight. Talia had disappeared somewhere, thank goodness. No one else had ventured toward their dark little corner of the settlement.

“Oh? And if I unzipped your pants, pulled out your cock, wrapped my lips around you … what would you be doing?”

“I’d probably be losing my fight against premature ejaculation.”

“I’m a little out of practice, you know.” Brushing his lips with hers, she spoke again. “I’d probably have to take my time. But I bet it’s like riding a bike – if you’ve done it once, you’ll always remember the basic concept.”

“A bike, sure.” He grabbed her hand and slid it down to his erection. When she closed her fingers around it and squeezed he let out a shaky laugh.

“That was the one thing we never got around to, last night. I never got to taste you. That seems a little unfair, don’t you think?”

“It’s a travesty which should be rectified immediately,” he said thickly, eyes drifting closed while his focus narrowed to her voice in his ear, and her hand sliding up and down the fabric-covered length of his cock. He didn’t care, anymore, if anyone was watching them. Covenant could have been under attack by raiders mounted on mirelurks, and he doubted he’d be able to do anything but stand there and let her touch him for however long she wanted.

“I want to, D. You have no idea how much.”

“I think I might have an inkling.”

“Unfortunately,” she said, voice turning suddenly brisk as she stepped away. “We have people to save and plots to unravel, remember?”

His eyes shot open indignantly to see her standing there, arms folded, wearing a smirk. “Oh, that was cold.”

She shrugged. “It’s no worse than what you were trying to do to me.”

“But I didn’t … but you … look at me!” He gestured sharply at the bulge tenting his jeans. Her gaze dropped, and the smirk softened with what looked like a touch of regret. “Walking around like this is not helpful when trying to blend, Q.”

She covered her mouth, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

“Oh and now you’re laughing, that’s great. Would Wasteland Jesus do this to a guy?”

“Funny, I don’t remember the hand job psalms. Don't judge Wasteland Jesus, D.”

“Two can play at this game, Q.”

“Oh I’m counting on it,” she said with a grin.

“Good. Consider yourself warned.”

“Day’s a-wasting, D.”

“I might need a minute, here,” he muttered, closing his eyes and trying to summon up images of every un-sexy thing he could: Deathclaws, Marcy Long blowing kisses, molerats, raiders, mirelurks, Mama Murphy in lingerie … after several long moments he felt sufficiently recovered to continue.

“You’re a terrible tease.”

“It appears I’m an excellent tease, actually.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep laughing. When you least expect it, Q …”

“Bring it on, D. Can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter down. Thank you, so much, to everyone who has stuck with this so far. The hits, comments and kudos have really helped me maintain momentum.
> 
> More next week!
> 
> If you need another shot of Deacon, here's one of my personal favorites: NeverwinterThistle's [Perseverance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5691556). Thistle somehow strikes a perfect balance between hot and hilarious. That's _so_ not easy, though Thistle somehow manages to make it look that way.
> 
> And then there are, of course, the far more regular updates of the lovely and talented Cloak_n_Dagger's [Old Timers or Love Likes Stratagem and Subterfuge](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5496740/chapters/12698756). She's fantastic. Smart, funny - it's just a great story.
> 
> So much Deacon, so little time.


	7. 'Honest' Dan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which D & Q remember why they're in Covenant.
> 
> Quests Mentioned: Human Error

Quinn couldn’t quite let go of her self-satisfied smirk as they crossed the yard again. Behind her Deacon muttered something she didn’t catch. She looked back to see him adjusting his pants again. When he glanced up at her she winked. The corners of his lips twitched in response.

“After you,” he said mildly, gesturing for her to precede him.

“So you can stare at my ass?”

“Naturally.”

“Oh. Well. Enjoy the view then.”

“Always do.”

She hesitated at that, then shook her head and continued walking. Behind her, Deacon chuckled.

The sound of a quietly heated conversation made them both pause. Quinn didn’t even have to look at him to know Deacon was shamelessly eavesdropping. He was always shamelessly eavesdropping. The terrifying amount of information he gathered was only part of what made him such a valuable asset to the Railroad. When he casually sidled up to her and draped a possessive arm over her shoulders, she belatedly remembered their cover story, and snuggled into his side as though she belonged there.

“A caravan came a few days back. Worked for Old Man Stockton. You saw them, right?” The first speaker was medium height and dressed in head-to-toe leather. His hair was shoulder-length, a greasy, medium brown, and the scraggly beard covering his jaw spoke of only a passing acquaintance with a razor. If anything, he stood out even more than they did.

Quinn studied the stranger closely out of the corner of her eye. “Who is that? Any idea?”

“His name is ‘Honest’ Dan,” Deacon replied, a hint of laughter in his voice as he made exaggerated air quotes with his fingers.

Quinn swatted his arms down again. “How do you know that already?”

“I have my ways.”

“You are incredibly creepy sometimes, D.”

He sketched a shallow bow in her direction. “Thank you, I do try. Now shush. I’m trying to listen.”

“I already told you. I don’t recollect. We get a lot of traffic,” the settler 'Honest' Dan was interrogating said sullenly. His folded arms and outthrust chin spoke volumes.

Dan, it appeared, wasn’t terribly adept at reading body language. “This isn’t Diamond City. A caravan of five comes through, you’d remember.”

“Then they must not have come through. Say, wouldn’t you rather have a lemonade?”

“My job here isn’t drinking lemonade. I know for a fact they came through here. Why the brush off?” From the sounds of it, Dan was forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

“He’s really not good at this, is he? Rookie mistake,” Deacon sniffed.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Rule number one when trying to blend: Always drink what you’re offered.”

“Dangerous habit, D.”

He shrugged. “Within reason.”

“Uh huh. Besides, have you tasted that lemonade? I wouldn’t drink it again on a bet,” Quinn shuddered, remembering the sour, slightly grainy aftertaste that an entire canteen of water hadn’t been able to completely erase.

“I’m sure they do the best they can, considering lemon trees aren’t exactly thick on the ground, these days.”

“Um, yeah … I’m pretty sure Deezer cuts it with Abraxo. I’m going to buy you some. Let’s see you sing its praises after tasting it.”

“You learn to adapt or you starve,” Deacon shrugged. “I’m pretty sure I’ve had worse.”

They watched Dan corner another settler some distance away, but it quickly became clear he wasn’t having any more luck with his newest target. He kept advancing and the settler kept retreating, finally making her escape after one of his increasingly forceful hand gestures nearly connected with her face.

“Well, that’s one way to go about it.” Deacon folded his arms, expression carefully noncommittal.

“Some people are just naturally more … forthright.”

“For all the good it did him. No charm, no finesse,” he sighed in mock sympathy. “Bet you twenty-five caps he ends up asking us for help.”

“Make it fifty. I want to be able to buy something pretty with your money,” Quinn said, suppressing a smile.

Grinning, he held out one hand. “Fifty caps? You’re on. I could use the extra money.”

“Not everyone hauls fifteen pounds of disguises around with them, you know,” she said lightly, shaking his hand to seal the bet.

“Ten pounds at most, babe. Maybe eight - a lot of my outfits are mix and match," Deacon responded absently, still studying Dan. "I’m not saying that it’s _wrong_ to be direct, necessarily. It would certainly make my job a lot easier if people were.”

“And you were the only compulsive liar stalking the wastes? Well, sure, I guess that would make things easier for you.”

“I prefer to think of it as more of an amble, really. Less purpose and more aimless drifting between trouble spots. Stalking is really more for you hero types.”

“Meander, then?” She cast him a sidelong glance, enjoying the quick flash of a smile that crossed his face.

“Mosey.”

“Traipse,” Quinn suggested with a grin.

“Caper,” Deacon countered, giving her a squeeze.

“Prance.”

“Nice. Flounce.”

“Good one. You know, I think you do flounce a little, sometimes. Ooh, looks like it’s our turn to be interrogated,” she added, turning away as he opened his mouth for a retort.

Dan now moved toward them with an almost belligerent determination in his stride. Beside her Deacon leaned comfortably against what might once have been an oak tree but was now a squat, dead thing hulking in the middle of the surrounding houses. She settled beside him, closely enough that their shoulders brushed.

Whether Dan was honest or not, Quinn wasn’t sure, but he moved well, with the confident swagger of a man used to fending for himself. As they watched him approach Jacob Orden, the leader of Covenant himself, appeared on his front porch. She'd met Jacob once already. Despite his paternal, only mildly condescending demeanor there was something about him she mistrusted. If Covenant had some sort of ringleader, she was willing to bet Jacob Orden was it. Dan spotted him in the same moment and, distracted, immediately veered toward the more obvious target.

Quinn nodded discreetly at the older man, drawing Deacon’s attention there.

“Head guy?”

She nodded. “That's Jacob. And yeah, I think so. Here in the settlement, anyway. The others all seem to defer to him.”

Unlike most of the people she’d come across in her travels so far, Orden was built on the soft side, with a comfortable paunch filling his casual, lightweight suit. He remained collected under the onslaught of Dan’s questioning, a small smile curving his lips throughout. The more agitated Dan grew the more Orden seemed to enjoy it, rocking on his heels and patting his stomach like a smug, somewhat rumpled Santa Claus. Quinn studied the two men with a small frown, eyes lingering on the empty holsters at Dan's hips.

“Mercenary, do you think?”

“Looks like it.”

“Did Old Man Stockton hire him, too?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Well, that’s a little demoralizing.”

“I wouldn’t take it personally. We all know you have your own problems to deal with and Stockton has the caps to spare.”

“Yeah, I guess. You think Cait’s back in Diamond City yet?”

Deacon was unfazed by the abrupt change of topic. “Doubtful. Garvey’s probably still passing along instructions about a settlement needing your help.”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “Funny. What if she and Dogmeat ran into trouble on the way from Sanctuary?”

“Um, we are talking about the same Cait, aren’t we? The same woman who tried to fistfight a Deathclaw for fun? And won?”

“Exactly. And the same dog who charges super mutant Suiciders.”

“Q, they’re fine. A match made in heaven. If anything, their path of destruction has probably made the road from Sanctuary that much safer for travelers.”

“I should have gone myself,” she said with a sigh.

Thanks to Nick Valentine, she finally had a target. He seemed sure, after hearing the description she'd managed to piece together from memory. Quinn could count on one hand the number of people she really trusted these days, and Nick topped that short list. He'd even given her a name - Kellogg - and she believed him. It was certainly something much more concrete to pin her hopes on than Mama Murphy's vague, drug-fueled predictions. The thought of finally finding him, the mercenary who had stolen everything she had left, filled her with something much darker than anticipation.

Making him talk would be pure pleasure.

Conveniently enough, the man owned a house right in the stands of Diamond City. After ransacking it and finding no decent leads to follow, Nick ventured upon the idea of tracking down the mercenary via dog. Though he mentioned that he could signal Dogmeat to join them in town through some sort of handy supersonic whistle, she didn’t like the idea of one animal, even one as tough as her dog, traveling on his own all the way from her home base. She'd been ready to set out for Sanctuary immediately but Nick had somehow convinced her to 'rest'. Instead, Cait, always restless, had volunteered to go in her place and Quinn agreed.

Now she was having second thoughts, of course.

“We could have done that, yeah,” Deacon said with a hint of exasperation. “But Cait volunteered because you needed the rest. With everything you’ve taken on – well, you can’t push yourself this hard forever, Q. Something’s gotta give.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

“And wouldn’t you rather face Kellogg with all your faculties intact?”

“… yes,” she muttered after a long pause, fully aware she sounded like a petulant child.

“And look how well that idea turned out. You lasted less than a day before you said you’d rather be doing something useful with the down time. So here we are.”

“I know, I know. I just … I’ve got to keep moving, D. Too much time to think, and I’ll start dwelling on ... everything.”

“Believe me, I understand.”

Strangely enough, she did believe him. She took a deep breath, scrubbing her face with both hands. “I’ve just got to trust Cait, right?”

“Well … I suppose someone does.”

Quinn gave him a flat stare. “I like Cait.”

“Liking her has nothing to do with it. I still can’t believe Piper let her move in. Does she at least do an inventory check of her valuables every day?”

“D, seriously, stop it. From what Piper’s told me, it’s working out very well. Nat really likes having Cait around, likes her stories. And Piper seems grateful for the help, especially when she’s hot on the trail of her next lead.”

“I’m sure Mayor McDonough is just thrilled to have Cait on as a permanent Diamond City resident. There’s nothing like a former raider to class a place up.”

“Mayor McDonough is kind of an asshole.”

“No arguments there," Deacon said, lifting an eyebrow at her.  
  
Quinn sighed, suppressing the urge to pull his sunglasses off so that she could see his eyes. She might still have done it, if she weren’t pretty sure he had at least two other pairs stashed somewhere on his person.  
  
“Don’t you believe in second chances, D?”

He was silent for so long she wasn’t sure he’d actually respond. When he finally spoke his voice was more serious than she’d ever heard it. “I’m not sure some people deserve one.”

She was no longer certain they were still discussing Cait, but a discreet cough interrupted them before she could question him. “You from around here? God, I hope not. I’ve had enough of these hicks.”

'Honest' Dan. Deacon let out an almost inaudible curse over the fact that the mercenary had managed to stomp up to them undetected. Quinn pasted a smile on her face before she turned around. “No, my fiancé and I are only visiting. Why? You have a problem with the people here?”

Up close he looked even more weathered and disreputable, especially when compared with the soft Covenant settlers. When he frowned, the lines bracketing his mouth deepened into crevices. “All the fake smiles and fancy talking puts me on edge. The sooner I’m out of here, the better. You know anything about Stockton’s caravan?”

Ignoring Deacon’s snort, Quinn lifted her eyebrows in polite inquiry. “A caravan? What are you talking about?”

“I signed on with Old Man Stockton to find his lost caravan. What’s left of it is just outside of town. Their last stop was here so I’ve been trying to put together the story. But I keep getting the run around.” He hesitated, studying them both with a disarmingly direct glare.

Quinn and Deacon exchanged glances, waiting while the mercenary sized them up.

“Got a proposal for you,” Dan said finally. “Help me find Stockton’s people and we split the reward. At least one survivor walked out of that massacre. And I intend to make good on my contract.”

'Honest' Dan might be decent backup in a firefight – his holsters were worn yet well-maintained, and his armor had definitely seen its share of battle. But Deacon was right. Dan really was no good at ferreting out information. Frustration radiated from him in almost visible waves. Here was a man who’d rather be shooting shit than unraveling mysteries.

She took a deep breath and then nodded. “Sounds fair. I’m in.”

His relief was palpable. “Here’s all I got on the caravan. I don’t got proof, but Covenant was involved. Somehow. I’ll keep poking around. But let me know if you find anything.” As he walked away there was a new spring to his step, the bounce of a man no longer shouldering the burden of an investigation for which he was entirely unsuited. Out of the corner of her eye, Quinn could see Deacon’s sudden smile. She rolled her eyes.

“Well,” he said brightly, circling around so that his grinning face was within her line of view. “Well, well, well. I think someone owes me fifty caps.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll pay you when we get back to Diamond City.”

“I’ll use your money to buy myself something pretty.”

“You’re a riot, D,” Quinn muttered, fighting down her own smile. “I don’t think talking to anyone will get us anywhere – not after Dan poisoned the well, so to speak,” she continued, scanning the compound. The residents continued their morning routines, seemingly carefree, though she caught a glance or two in their direction. Someone would always be watching, she assumed.

“I think you’re right. Time for a little housebreaking, then? You know how I love to watch you work those bobby pins.”

“Not in broad daylight. How would you feel about heading to the bunkhouse? We might be able to make some plans without being overheard. Maybe get a little more sleep. As I recall, neither of us got much last night.”

He gave her a slow grin. “Rest? Here? Not worried about being probed anymore?”

“No. At least, not uninvited. After all, you’ve got my back, right?”

“Always, Q. I’m in your corner. Always have been.”

He linked his fingers with hers, tugging her away from the tree. She made a show of giggling reluctance when he began pulling her inexorably toward the guest house, and received an approving squeeze of her hand for the performance.

Unfriendly eyes followed them the whole way there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh - two weeks since the last update. Sorry about that! I will do better, I promise.
> 
> Thank you, again, for reading this far. Thank you even more for the hits and kudos. Comments are always welcome, too, even if it's just to give me crap for my suddenly erratic posting schedule.


	8. What Happens in the Bunkhouse ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, well, they had to do something to pass the time, right?

“I should really find out what the hell they use to clean this place,” Quinn commented as they stepped inside. “They might be a bunch of cryptic, weirdly cheerful creeps, but damned if they don’t know how to make a floor spotless. We could really use this in Sanctuary. Maybe I’ll make Marcy do the scrubbing.”

The bunkhouse was dim and cool. Three, only slightly, rickety-looking beds lined one wall. Each bed was neatly made and stacked with pillows. Someone, probably Penny Fitzgerald, had made an effort to brighten the place up by hanging curtains in the windows and a couple of paintings on the walls.

Quinn barely had a chance to admire the attempt at decor before Deacon had her pressed against the solid wooden door. Then his lips were on hers, demanding and insistent. For several long moments she had trouble remembering why they’d come to Covenant in the first place, much less what they were doing in the bunkhouse. Besides the obvious.

And when he added tongue to his repertoire, she even forgot the less-than-friendly settlers who were no doubt clustered just outside, collective ears pressed to the door. Another cursory glance around the empty room showed that the curtains in the window were an absurdly cheery yellow color, emblazoned with what she thought might be white daisies. Then Deacon angled his head, kissing her more deeply, grinding against her in one of those slow rolls she could easily become used to, and she didn’t care what the fuck was on the curtains, much less who might be standing just beyond them.

“D, what are you doing?” She murmured it when his lips left hers to trail down her jaw. At some point, she was dismayed to discover, her arms had traitorously looped themselves around his neck. One thumb idly stroked his nape. She felt no burning desire to let go, either.

“You said we should get some rest. This wasn’t what you had in mind?” He drew back slightly, hands cradling her hips.

“Not exactly,” she said.

When Deacon boosted her more solidly against the door she wrapped her legs around his hips. Ankles locking at the small of his back to hold herself in place, Quinn pulled his sunglasses off, tossing them in the general direction of a nearby mattress. They bounced once before clattering to the floor.

Deacon winced. “You’ve gotta stop just flinging my shit around, Q. It took me months of scavving to find a pair of glasses that really suited the shape of my face.”

Pulling back slightly, Quinn studied what she could see of his expression. “Seriously?”

“Yes, absolutely. Would you want to hide these cheekbones?”  
  
She continued to regard him skeptically. After a long moment he laughed.

“Ok, no. Actually I have, like, three more pairs in my bag. One in my pocket, too. Fling away.”

“I _knew_ it!”

“So,” he said, his studied nonchalance only slightly spoiled by the way he couldn’t seem to stop running his hands along her thighs. “When you said we should ‘catch up on sleep’ you actually meant … sleep, huh?”

She nodded.

“Does that mean I should stop?”

Quinn mentally reviewed and discarded a half dozen reasons why stopping might be a good idea, not the least of which included their infiltration of an undoubtedly hostile settlement, flimsy cover story, and the fact that one wrong move could lead to all of it blowing up spectacularly in their faces. Perhaps literally, depending on what kind of weaponry the settlers were sitting on.

Still, when he leaned in again she gave herself up to another greedy kiss without protest, her fingers tightening on the back of his neck to hold him there.

“Not exactly,” she said, breathless, when his head finally lifted again.

His lips curled in a small smile, laced with just a hint of smugness she couldn’t exactly hold against him. When he kissed her again she was ready. He opened his mouth to her and her tongue slipped inside without hesitation. The taste of him was rich, like dark chocolate and red wine. All of her lost, favorite things rolled into one heady and familiar whole.

One of his hands left her hip to fumble at the door, his usual finesse decidedly lacking in the moment. After several long minutes during which she refused to relinquish his lips, she heard the door lock click.

His erection pressed against her stomach, too high to do her any good. She struggled to climb him, to get it closer to where she needed him to be, and he cursed, cupping her bottom with both hands to hold her still. She grumbled, hips moving impatiently against his anchoring hold.

“Stop, Q,” he whispered against her lips. “Stop wiggling.”

“Why?” Her own voice sounded just as rough, just as ragged, to her own ears.

“Because I’m going to cum in my pants if you keep moving like that,” he answered shortly.

“Ah,” she said after a long moment of silence. Then she smiled, slowly and wickedly, enjoying the sudden wariness that entered his eyes. Unhooking her ankles, she let her legs drop to the ground again. “Well. Let me see what I can do about that, hmm?”

“Q, what are you …” His voice trailed off as she slipped out of his arms, taking him by the hips and reversing their positions so that his back was pressed against the door. She busily divested him of his shirt while he watched her in bemusement, for once completely passive, and silent, under her hands.

“You have a beautiful body, D,” she told him conversationally, running her hands possessively over the smooth skin of his chest and shoulders. “I don’t think I mentioned that last night, did I?”

“We … we didn’t do much in the way of talking,” he managed, swallowing visibly when she bent and pressed a gentle kiss to the center of his chest. Eyes closing, he let his head fall back against the door with a soft thud.

“No, we didn’t. That’s all right. We do plenty of talking already, don’t you think?” Bending, she planted her next kiss lower, just above his belly button, noticing with interest the way his stomach muscles tightened in reaction when she did so.

“Dez says I’m in love with the sound of my own voice, but I don’t think that’s true. I’ve just always been all right with talking.” His voice trailed off when she licked a path down from his belly button, following the thin line of reddish-brown hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans like an arrow.

“Yes, I’ve noticed that,” she said, smiling. He lifted his head, watching her with shuttered eyes as she knelt before him.

Gaze on his face, she slid her palms slowly up his denim-clad calves and then along his thighs, tracing the sleek line of muscle there. When she flicked open the button of his jeans he swallowed again, Adam’s apple bobbing. If his eyes were a touch wide, neither of them mentioned it.

“See, I thought you might have noticed,” he said, seemingly unable to keep quiet even as the sound of his descending zipper pierced the thick silence of the room. “You’re very observant. I’ve always admired that about you.”

“Have you,” she murmured, pushing his pants to his ankles and helping him step clear of them before turning her attention back to his cock. “Ooh. Commando. Nice.”

“I feel I should point out that standing around a potentially hostile environment with my bits out isn’t something I’d normally be in to. Just saying.”

Quinn shot him a skeptical look, glancing pointedly at his bobbing erection.

He grinned and shrugged. “All evidence to the contrary aside … oh. Damn, that was sudden. Jesus, cold hands. You just dive right in, don’t you? I can get behind that.”

He jerked instinctively away from her intrepid hand and she followed him easily, twisting her grip slowly around the half-erect shaft of his cock, fingers tightening and still not quite meeting at the base. When she stroked up, equally slowly, his hips followed her movement. Leaning forward and hovering, open-mouthed, near the tip of him, just a promise of heat and the tickle of her breath against his sensitive skin, she increased her tempo slightly. With each measured stroke he grew even harder, foreskin drawing back just enough to expose the head. She licked, tasting salt. Lightly dragging the nails of her other hand in slow, lazy spirals down his abdomen, she felt his stomach muscles twitch again in response. Then, with no further warning, she took him in her mouth, descending leisurely to meet her hand.

Deacon groaned, hands pressed against the doorframe, fingertips digging into the wood.

He continued talking, voice now a bit hoarse. “Well, there was that one time in Goodneighbor. But I don’t think that should really count, because I wasn’t the only one naked. There were a lot of us there. You can move a little faster now if you want. No need for the slow tease, here, unless that’s what you’re into. I’m putty in your hands. Not all of me, obviously, but … oh goddammit.”

He threaded his fingers in her hair, holding her head loosely as she steadily moved up and down, still maintaining that teasing, leisurely tempo. Quinn glanced up to see him watching her, blue eyes narrow and focused on the movement of her mouth. She braced both hands against his thighs, so milky pale compared to the rest of him. Nails lightly scoring his skin, this time she added a hint of suction on the upswing, pleased when he let out a breathy little sound, too loud to qualify as a gasp yet too soft to be a moan.

“I keep wondering what I’d do if someone tried to come in,” he managed to rasp. His voice was more than a little unsteady. “I mean, I’m completely … _fuck, yes_ … defenseless here, no gun in sight. This is _so_ not what I usually sign on for. I’m not sure that wowing them with my impressive hard-on is really an option, do y- … ah! Do that again.”

She did.

Releasing him with a nearly inaudible pop, Quinn sat back to admire her handiwork. He glistened, proudly erect, the head of his cock distinctly reddened. She leaned forward, dragging her tongue along the vein underneath, pumping him with one hand and paying special attention to the spot just under the head that, she’d discovered, made him inhale sharply and fall blessedly silent for several long moments.

But, true to form, he seemed completely incapable of maintaining that silence for long. “And then I remembered, Q’s always got an extra gun stashed somewhere. I’m … _Christ_ … I’m totally safe here. She’ll protect me.”

When she dove deep his hand tightened almost painfully in her hair. She hummed in protest, but the vibration only made him jerk and groan. He began pumping against her mouth. Quinn moved with a single-minded purpose now – lips and heat and gentle suction, mouth and hand moving in relentless concord. Even Deacon’s mindless patter devolved into heavy breathing and what might have been groaning were it any less guttural.

“I’m close, Q … _Jesus_ … I’d back off now unless you … shit … do you want me to? Really?”

Without comment she redoubled her efforts, relishing the way every muscle in his body tightened under her sudden assault. When he came it was in utter silence, even his breathing stopped. His hips jerked spasmodically, cock pulsing, back arching and fingers tightening yet again in her hair. She rode the wave of his orgasm, throat working as she swallowed, savoring every drop with her nose nestled against his pubic hair, just breathing in the scent of him.

Deacon collapsed against the door, panting. Her scalp would be sore for hours, but she didn’t mind. It was worth it to see him in this one moment of utter satiation. For once he seemed incapable of watching, of continuously scanning for threats. Palms stroking his hips in soothing circles, she gently kissed the tip of his cock. He jerked in response, then laughed weakly.

“Oh man. Oh … fuck,” he said. “Thank you just doesn’t seem to cover it.”

Rising slowly to her feet, she grinned and shrugged. “It was entirely my pleasure.”

“You are _so_ not out of practice,” he said, pulling her in for a kiss with his eyes still closed.

“Good to know. Guess it really is like riding a bicycle.”

“I’ll be all right in a minute. Good to go. Fine and fucking dandy.”

“We have time.”

“Then maybe I’ll just lean against this nice, sturdy door for a little longer.”

“Why don’t you just lie down?”

“Pants. I need pants to do that. This does not seem like a place that invites random streaking.”

She handed them over, covering her smile when he chose to maintain contact with the door while stepping into them. His thighs trembled slightly, and she had to help him fasten them, but when she led him over to one of the beds he submitted without protest to her guidance. The bed frame squeaked loudly when he collapsed atop it, immediately curling on one side with his knees drawn up.

“Would it be completely crass to say I needed that?”

She smiled again, rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. “No.”

“I’m just gonna close my eyes for a second here.”

“Rest, D. I know you barely get any sleep as it is.”

He smiled, reaching out to pat her thigh. It was true. She wasn’t sure how much sleep he ever actually got in a given night. Even when she woke, suddenly, in the middle of the night, it was usually to find him awake and nearby. Always watching over her. Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss to his forehead, still lightly stroking his spine. His lips curled again, slightly, and he arched against her hand like a cat.

“Just for a minute,” he said softly, eyes drifting closed. “Okay?”

“I’ve got your back, D. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever to post. I'm so sorry about that! I blame life. And procrastination.
> 
> Thank you, so much, for reading!


	9. Sneaking and Intel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they make their move. Finally.

“Whatcha reading?”

When Quinn looked up she found Deacon watching her. Briefly, she wondered how long he’d been doing so. Given his history it could be anywhere from thirty seconds to an hour.

“Just something I picked up along the way,” she said, lifting the book up to show him the title. “It used to be one of my favorites. I’m hoping to come across the rest of the series someday to round out my collection. How did you sleep?”

“Like a fairy tale princess. Hey … thanks, Q. I needed that.”

“Which part?” She flashed him a grin.

“Well I won’t deny that the first part was … stellar. Like, wow,” he said, meeting her gaze steadily without a trace of embarrassment. “But mostly the sleep, I guess.”

“I figured as much. You’ve been looking a little ragged around the edges, D.”

“It’s not exactly easy keeping up with you. When this is all over, I think I deserve a spa day.”

“You and me both.”

“Great, it’s a date. So how long was I out? What time is it?”

She glanced out the nearest window, checking the position of the sun. “Almost time to start snooping, I’d say, if these guys follow the dusk-to-dawn pattern everyone else does.”

Following her gaze to the crimson and gold streaked sky, he looked genuinely startled for a split second. “That long? And nobody tried to get in?”

“Surprisingly, no. I really thought someone would check up on us, but it’s been quiet. I went ahead and unlocked the door about … an hour ago, I guess? Didn’t want anyone to start pounding on it and wake you.”

“Aw thanks, Q. That really warms my heart. But didn’t you get any sleep? Wasn’t that pretty much the point of coming here?”

“At first. I guess I got distracted.”

Looking mildly pleased, Deacon smiled. “I’m that much of a distraction, huh?”

“Well it sure wasn’t Nick’s hands on my ass, earlier.”

“No complaints then? That’s good. Hey, since you brought up Nick, here's a question I've been pondering for a while now. Do you think that all synths have …”

“No. We’re not going there.”

“You’d think I’d have some idea, with as much time as I’ve spent around them. But it’s kind of an awkward question to ask.”

“Yeah, there’s really no way to segue gracefully into that one.” She shook her head, firmly dismissing her own flicker of curiosity. “Anyway, I let you get some sleep because I said I’d watch your back, didn’t I? It’s okay, though. I think I’m good for a little while longer.”

Deacon’s eyes flicked over her, impassively gauging her level of fatigue. He lifted an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. That was one of her favorite things about him – that he trusted her to know her limits. To a point, anyway, she suspected. And if he felt she was pushing herself too hard, well, at least he was generally subtle with his manipulation.

She’d left his shirt, neatly folded, just within reach on the adjacent bed. Silently, he grabbed it. Pulling it over his head, he shoved his arms through the sleeves and then, in an automatic gesture, carefully straightened his wig. Watching him, she had to suppress a smile.

“What? Doesn’t it look all right?” Eyebrows lifted, he turned his head from side to side to give her a better view.

“Sure, it looks okay, I guess.”

“Just okay?” He looked mildly offended.

“What do you want me to say? It’s a wig. One that, frankly, has seen better days,” she said, then subsided under his frown. “Oh fine. It’s a little flat on one side. But, other than that, you’re still the sexiest wig-wearing fella in Covenant by far.”

“Now was that so hard? Shameless flattery will get you everywhere, you know,” he said, standing, fingers already fluffing and smoothing the flat side of his wig. “So, how do you want to go from here?”

“I’d like a look inside Orden’s house first. I think he’s the key to figuring out what they’ve done with Amelia.”

“Sneaking and intel? That’s totally my thing.”

“I know. It’s almost like I formed this plan with your strengths in mind.”

“You absolutely did. Thanks for looking out.”

“Not like it wasn’t what was already on the menu but, sure, I’ll take full credit for the simple brilliance.”

“As well you should,” he agreed. “See? Now you’re getting it. We’ll make a real Wastelander of you, yet.”

“A prospect that fills me with never-ending glee.”

“I’m sensing a touch of sarcasm.”

“Nah.”

“What if I told you there was a party? Kind of like a coming-of-age deal, only with Tom’s home-brewed … well, it’s not really fair to call it whiskey. Let’s just go with ‘alcoholic beverage’.”

“That … actually frightens me a little.”

“Then you’re a smart woman. He’s still perfecting the process. The last time I tried it, I woke up two days later in Bunker Hill, wearing nothing but my glasses and a purple fedora. I have no idea where that hat came from, but I kept it anyway. I mean, you never know, right?”

Quinn laughed. “Oh, that’s a story I might need to hear.”

“Maybe. If you’re very nice to me. We’ll see.”

“I’m not sure how I could get much nicer, D.”

“Fair point,” he said, flashing a slow smile. It shouldn’t have made her blush, but did.

“Anyway,” she said quickly, looking away. “Now that we have some semblance of a plan, which, come to think of it, didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would, want to see if they have any food?”

“I could eat, sure,” he said agreeably.

“When can you not eat?”

“I’m a man of substantial appetites.” He waggled his eyebrows, holding the door open for her.

“You’re … something,” she said, laughing.

As they exited the bunkhouse Deacon casually linked his fingers with hers. The simple touch made her stomach flutter. On the one hand, she admired his single-minded devotion to their cover story. On the other, it was awfully distracting. Which might be part of the point, she realized. Deacon rarely did anything which had only one desired outcome.

It was something to consider. Later, perhaps, when he wasn’t crowding her so closely.

She studied their immediate surroundings. Just beyond the front door, near the remains of the stunted oak, she could see the dying embers of a campfire with a pot of something that actually smelled somewhat edible slowly cooling just above it. Several of the settlers lingered at the picnic tables set up nearby, enjoying the sunset and a last cigarette before bed. Eyes turned in their direction. Some were curious, some knowing, but most felt disinterested. She wondered if they’d lingered in the settlement long enough, by now, to allay most of the initial suspicion.

“Well hey, you two. I’d wondered where you’d disappeared to,” Penny Fitzgerald called upon spotting them. She wore her usual wide smile, the one Quinn couldn’t entirely be sure wasn’t chemically-assisted. It had to be. She hadn’t met anyone, ever, who smiled that much for no obvious reason.

“Just needed some quality time with my best girl,” Deacon called back cheerfully as they approached the campfire, and Penny smiled even more widely. She gestured at the pot and, when they both nodded acceptance, began dishing out bowls of some sort of vegetable stew.

“Aw, isn’t that sweet? Brian was like that when we first met,” she confided, lowering her voice conspiratorially as she handed Quinn her bowl. “He just couldn’t keep his hands off me.”

Quinn took a tentative bite of her stew and, finding it more than edible, dug in with gusto. She carefully kept her eyes from darting to Penny’s husband, who stood off to one side, his face etched into its usual frown. It was hard to imagine Brian Fitzgerald even smiling, much less caught up in the throes of passion. In her peripheral vision she saw Deacon studying the man, too, and knew he was trying to picture the same thing. Afraid she'd start laughing, she avoided his gaze, forcing her imagination under control and somehow managing to keep her expression pleasantly neutral. As a result, she was only half listening to Deacon as he continued schmoozing Penny. Glancing around, she saw Jacob Orden at a nearby table, watching them. When their eyes met she smiled. He didn’t return the gesture. Instead, he simply regarded her gravely for several seconds before turning away.

“… but love always finds a way, doesn’t it, hon?” Deacon was saying, between bites, to a rapt Penny. He gave Quinn a squeeze and she nodded an automatic agreement, throwing him an adoring look for good measure. His lips twitched at her sappy expression.

On impulse, she leaned in to kiss Deacon on the cheek. As if he’d anticipated her action, and he probably had, he turned his head just enough to meet her lips with his. She’d never been big on public displays. It was always tough for her to lose herself in the moment with someone watching. Now, even with an audience, she still felt slightly dazed when he finally released her. Blinking her eyes clear, she glanced around. Penny was positively radiant, beaming at the two of them. Her eyes looked a little misty and Quinn couldn’t help but wonder, momentarily, if Brian’s kisses had ever managed to make his wife’s brain stall for even a moment.

“So how did the two of you meet, anyway?” Penny leaned in, eyes sparkling with interest, hands clasped to her chest in anticipation.

“I’m glad you asked. Now that’s a funny story. Do you want to tell it, honey?”

“You’re better at telling stories than I am, babe,” she murmured.

Deacon grinned, slinging an arm around her waist and discreetly pinching her. Turning back to Penny, he began talking while Quinn settled in for the performance. As always, his bullshit was inspired. The tale he told of their first ‘meeting’ had everything – a touch of danger, a dash of romance and a dollop of intrigue. Penny swallowed every word then asked for seconds, the look on her face wistful. For a moment Quinn wondered what her story was, and how she’d ended up in Covenant.

Quinn studied faces while Deacon continued his tale. She wasn’t sure how he did it, how he managed to spin such outrageous lies and make people actually believe him. Maybe it was his easy confidence. No matter where he ended up, or who he was with, he always acted as if there was nowhere he’d rather be, no one else with whom he’d rather spend his time. He knew how to make people feel good. Perhaps it was just that simple.

One by one, the settlers began drifting off toward their beds. Deacon kept charming the few who remained while she clung to his side and played the adoring fiancée. Night had truly fallen before the last of them, Jacob Orden himself, finally sought rest. She and Deacon remained at one of the picnic tables. By that point they were both talking enthusiastically about Covenant, just loudly enough for a word or two to be overheard but low enough that it seemed like a private conversation. She felt the weight of Jacob’s gaze on them for several moments before he, too, disappeared inside the house.

“He’s gone,” Deacon murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She nodded, turning her head away slightly to scan the area. There was nobody else in sight.

“Was this too easy? This felt too easy,” he continued.

Quinn rolled her eyes. “You know I’m totally blaming you now when this all goes to shit.”

He grinned. “Nah, we’re good.”

“D, when have we ever, _ever_ , had a mission go according to plan?”

“Hey, I’m an eternal optimist.”

“I didn’t think they made those anymore.”

“We’re a dying breed.”

Hand-in-hand, they drifted in the general direction of the bunkhouse, veering off between the buildings once they’d edged beyond the line of sight of Jacob’s front windows. Though the man looked harmless enough, there was something vaguely creepy about the thought of him standing there, in the dark, watching them. Perhaps giving his beard a thoughtful stroke or two. By the time they’d reached the side door of Jacob’s house and Q went to work on the lock, she’d half convinced herself that they’d pop the door open to find him sitting there in the dark, waiting for them. She sagged in relief when they eased inside under the sound of snoring, and saw Jacob sprawled across the middle of his bed. The covers were pulled to his chin. And on the nightstand next to the bed lay a piece of paper with a single word written on it. Quinn sighed a little, pocketing it.

“I have to say,” she said once they were back outside and heading toward the house which served as Jacob’s makeshift office. “I am really unimpressed with the caliber of villain you guys have these days.”

“I sense the start of another ‘back in my day’ story,” Deacon said, grinning. She cast him a flat glance.

“Oh, you’re a funny guy.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“We didn't have to search a damn thing. It was there. Right there, out in the open."

"That bummed you didn't get to rifle through his underwear drawer, huh?"

"Eww, no! I'm not a pervert. But, I mean, seriously. Who keeps their password just lying around for anyone to find?”

“Are you really complaining that his crap memory just made our mission easier?”

She paused and then nodded. “Yes. Yes I am.”

“What, your life isn’t challenging enough these days?”

“You’re really taking the fun out of my whining.”

She made quick work of the lock on the front door to the office while Deacon kept an unnecessary watch. Inside, the place was as clean as everywhere else in Covenant, right down to the corners of the barred cell which must have once been a breakfast nook. Despite having seen much worse over the last few months, something about the pile of (laundered, neatly folded) blankets in one corner of the cell turned Quinn’s stomach sour. They stood for a moment, regarding the corners swept clean of dirt, the dull gleam of the iron bucket sitting discreetly to one side. Then, as one, they turned toward the ancient computer sitting on a desk just opposite the cell.

Deacon paced behind her, randomly touching things, while Quinn fired up the computer. When the system prompted her for a password she sighed, unfolding the scrap of paper and keying in the word written there. The computer chirped cheerfully, granting her access even as she grumbled under her breath about the lack of a challenge.

“You know, we could have played hangman or something for that password. If you really wanted a challenge, that is,” Deacon commented, idly flipping through one of the books on the adjacent bookshelf.

“It’s only challenging because you cheat.”

He lowered his glasses to peer at her over the tops of them, giving her a wounded look. “Cheat? Me?”

“You kept changing the word!”

“I’m just here to keep you sharp, Q.”

“You’re just here to play mind games … oh. Well. There it is. And I remain unimpressed by this generation of villains.”

“You found something?”

“How do you feel about taking a swim?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who might actually still be reading this: Bet you thought it wouldn't happen. Hell, I wasn't sure it would happen. I'm so sorry for the incredibly long delay!


End file.
